


The Aether Forge

by osheamobile



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Airships, Conrad Verner Is Great At Boats, Exploration, Friendship, Gen, Maybe The Real Reapers Were The Friends We Made Along The Way, Sky Pirate AU, Sky Pirates, Turian Batman, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osheamobile/pseuds/osheamobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shepard woke up after a particularly bad mission, she didn't expect it to be two years later. The world changed around her, but some things always remain the same.</p><p>The freedom of the skies. The friends at her side. The eldritch death gods from beyond creation and their tentacular terrors.</p><p>Mass Effect Sky Pirate AU. Adapted from a challenge drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lazarus

In the Beginning, it was said, the hubris of Mortals brought the attention of The Harvest. They were the Creators, or perhaps the Destroyers, but what was certain was Their Purpose.

In the end, none of it mattered. They were coming, and They would not be stopped until Their Purpose had been fulfilled.

 

* * *

 

There was darkness. There was light.

She didn’t know where the darkness stopped and the light began, but what she did know was that she was trapped between them.

_all hands brace for impa—_

There was a jolt, and the memory flooded through her.

She _remembered_ the darkness, filling her, choking her, smothering her with its weight. The darkness pulled her from her—

_ship? crew?_

There was darkness. There was light.

She was floating. She _knew_ she was floating, and it was a familiar sensation. It was the lifeless freedom of the Void. It was the plummeting drop of open sky. It was the safe compression of the womb. It was all of these things, and yet none of them, all at once.

_i'm not leaving you behind_

Another jolt. Another memory. There was light, painful and bright. Burning like fire - it _was_ fire, wasn’t it? Surrounding her, consuming her. Blinding her sight, dulling her reflexes.

_wake up_

There was darkness, but it was receding. There was light, and it was ahead of her, pulling her onward.

_wake up_

There was another jolt, but no memory to accompany it. There was light, and it was blinding.

_shepard you have to wake up_

She woke up.

 

* * *

**Chapter 1:**  
**Lazarus**

* * *

 

There was a saying, back in the Alliance Military, that pain was how you knew you were alive. It was often trotted out during Special Forces training - something the drill sergeants particularly loved to shout. Being in pain meant you were alive, and did you really want to explore the alternative?

By those standards, Shepard knew without a doubt that she was the most alive she had ever been.

"She’s awake." A voice Shepard had never heard before. Feminine. Vibrant. Accented. Probably human.

"Are you reading this, Lawson? Her brainwave patterns are off the  _charts_.” Deep. Masculine.

"Then  _get a new chart_ ,” said the first voice. Lawson, probably. ”We don’t have time for this. Shepard, can you hear me?”

Shepard opened her eyes, and immediately regretted doing so. A gas light was inches from her face, and the flickering of the orange flame immediately triggered a headache. She tried to raise a hand to shield her eyes—

**Situation:**  She was in pain, disoriented, in unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar people, her vision was having trouble focusing, and she was  _strapped down_.

"Where—" she started to say, but stopped herself. Licked her lips. Tried to alleviate the dryness of her mouth and throat. "Where am I?"

 A face moved into her blurry vision. “Shepard, my name is Miranda Lawson, and you’re in a medical facility. We’re a special-operations division of—”

"Cerberus," Shepard finished, glancing pointedly at the garish black-and-gold insignia embroidered on Lawson’s coveralls. The rest of the world hadn’t come into focus yet, but she’d seen that symbol many, many times before.

"Yes," said Lawson, arching her eyebrow. "We may as well move onto the memory tests." She moved out of Shepard’s direct line-of-sight and picked up an object. A clipboard, probably; Shepard could hear a pencil scratching.

"Shepard, Commander, Special Forces, Kingdoms Alliance Navy. Two-five-three-six-delta-tango-five."

"Good, good," said Lawson, sounding distracted - and for good reason. The background sounds were starting to come into focus; Shepard would recognize cannon fire anywhere. "Can you tell me what your most recent memory is?"

_cold. dark. can’t breathe, can’t see, **can’t breathe** —_

"Shepard, Commander, Special Forces, Kingdoms Alliance Navy." Shepard turned her head, ignoring the pain as her neck muscles creaked, and leveled her best glare at Lawson. "Two-five-three-six-delta-tango-five."

Lawson sighed and put the clipboard down. “Cute, Shepard. This isn’t an interrogation, and you’re not being detained."

Shepard pulled at the straps holding her to the table. “Really.”

"It’s for your own safety," said Lawson. "It’s a medical precaution."

"Medical? Why am I being restrained for  _medical precaution_?”

Lawson glanced away at the next round of cannon fire. “That’s a question that I can answer,  _when we have more time_.” She turned to the other presence in the room. “Wilson, what’s the status on that evac?”

 

* * *

 

As defenses on a Cerberus facility went, the Lazarus site was better protected than most. The medical complex encompassed a full third of the peninsula, with the research division and the dormitories on either side to provide a physical buffer. Auto-cannons peppered the cliff-sides, providing nearly three hundred sixty degrees of targeting coverage.

There was, in fact, a wedge of space on the eastern side of the facility that the auto-cannons could not reach, but the blind spot was so small that under reasonable circumstances, nobody would be able to find it.

At least, not without help.

The facility, at present, was surrounded by jet-black airships, the only signs of their presence were the green flares of their aethertech cannons, firing at the peninsula. The Cerberus auto-cannons picked them off one by one, using those muzzle flashes in lieu of proper targeting data, but these were only the distraction.

Nestled in the trees, directly in Cerberus’s blind spot, was an unmanned shuttlecraft. Painted the same matte black as the attacking ships, it waited, silently, for an unknown cargo.

 

* * *

 

"—so I understand your concerns, but as you can see, we don’t have much time."

Miranda gathered up all her crucial research notes and started counting the seconds between the cannon bursts. The auto-cannons were designed to fire at regulated intervals to ensure appropriate levels of suppression fire. If one gun emplacement was destroyed, the other cannons would increase their fire rate to compensate.

"They haven’t taken out any of the cannons," she said, turning back to Shepard, who hadn’t moved from the operating table. "We should leave before that changes. There are spare clothes in the drawer next to you."

Amazingly, the woman still didn’t move. She was sitting on the edge of the table, her arms crossed, and leveling the most intense glare Miranda had seen in her  _entire adult life._

"I’m not leaving until you tell me where we are and what I’m  _doing_  here,” Shepard stated with an air of finality.

"There’s no—"

"No time, I got that." Shepard’s hand waved in a rudely dismissive gesture. "You say I’m not a prisoner. Fine, then  _tell me why_.”

"She’s got a point, Miranda," Wilson said. He raised a flashlight up to the window he was peering out, ostensibly to see what was going on.

"Get down, you idiot," Miranda snapped. "You want to get shot?"

"They’re not dropping any troops," Wilson countered. "They’re just sitting there, taking potshots at the turrets. Like they’re just—"

An explosion rocked the lab. Shepard’s hand went to her hip reflexively, but there was nothing there but the hospital gown she currently wore.

"—a distraction," Miranda finished. "That came from the automaton lab."

"If they’ve gained control of the lab, we’re in trouble," Wilson said, turning away from the window. "We need to go through there to get to the landing field."

Miranda shook her head. Unnecessary complications, all of them. An unknown assailant, a compromised escape route, likely everyone else in the base dead or captured—

"Wait," she said, turning to Wilson. "Who’s on-duty in the labs at this time of night?"

"Taylor, probably," said Wilson. "Does it matter?"

"Matter? Of course it matters. Taylor’s smart, he’ll have found a bottleneck." Miranda allowed herself a brief smile. Not  _everything_  was going to shit. Just the important things, like the assault and the explosions and Shepard—

—Shepard, who was almost finished getting dressed and cinching the straps on the too-large spare boots, presumably to keep them from slipping at an inopportune time.

"Shepard?"

"That’s not an Alliance raid," Shepard said, as if that was the end of it. And Miranda had to admit, that made sense. "So regardless of what I think of you and your  _organization_ , Lawson, I officially recognize this as an emergency situation and hereby offer a cessation of hostilities under a  _temporary_  truce, while we work out an escape.”

"That’s convenient," growled Wilson.

"Doesn’t matter," Miranda countered. "It works. As such, Shepard, I insist that you suspend any further questions—"

"Of which there will be _many_ ,” interrupted Shepard. _  
_

"—until such time that I can safely answer them." At a  _look_  from Shepard, she hastily added, “And I  _will_  answer them, you have my word.”

"Good," Shepard said, hopping to her feet. "This is your base, Lawson. Lead the way. And someone get me a damned weapon!"

 

* * *

 

When in storage, Knauss-class automatons folded in on themselves to conserve space. This allowed for a maximum of the soldiers in a standard-size shipping crate, and the labs had no shortage of crates.

A series of Knauss units were strewn about the corridor, but when Shepard, Lawson, and Wilson rounded the corner, they were already unfolding into a wall of ceramic and brass.

Shepard checked the pistol that Lawson had handed her. It was an unfamiliar design, and the weight was certainly not comfortable in her hand, but a firearm was a firearm. She had trained with every model of gun she could get her hands on, ever since she had enlisted with the Kingdoms Alliance Navy in her late teens. Riflery was as natural to her as breathing,  _any_  gun was an extension of her own arm. 

She swung the pistol up one-handed in a practiced arc, squeezing the trigger before it was fully in line,  _knowing_  that the shot was lined up by the time the hammer clicked back. It was a shot she had drilled into her body for  _decades_ , turning sideways to keep her profile slim - to provide the smallest target while not sacrificing a bit of her accuracy. It was a shot she could do with her eyes _closed_  if she had to, and on occasion she’d  _had to_.

She missed.

Stunned, Shepard walked a few steps  _closer_  to the Knauss blockade, taking advantage of the few seconds before their own weapons were in line. She squeezed off three shots in rapid succession, sure headshots at that range, which would have disabled the units.

Three shots. Three  _unharmed_  automatons. _  
_

The reality of the situation caught up with her, and she dived into a side corridor for cover as the Knauss units started firing.

“‘Let’s wake up Shepard,’”  came Wilson’s voice, floating on an almost solid foundation of sarcasm. “‘She’ll know what to do. She’ll get us out of here and save the day.’ And it’s working out so  _wonderfully_ , Miranda.”

"Shut up, Wilson," Lawson said. "Shepard, aim for the spinal column if you can, it will disrupt all of their motor functions."

"I could, if you hadn’t given me such a shit gun," Shepard shouted back, over the noise of the automaton’s own handguns. "Where’s the coolant device, anyway?"

"It’s there, on the side!"

Shepard looked more closely at the gun. There was some sort of detachable object hooked into where an aethertech gun’s coolant tubes were supposed to be. That explained the weight, but—

"Wait a minute, this thing’s a disposable coolant? I’ve got limited shots?"

“ _Not the time, Shepard!_ ”

"Right," Shepard said, almost to herself. "Stupid prototype handgun. Alright, back to Basic."

She switched up her grip to the Academy-trained two-handed position, sacrificing speed and reduced body profile for accuracy and recoil support. The feeling of  _wrongness_  in her body, one that had been building since she woke up, finally flagged her attention and pointed out how slowly her hands were moving.

It didn’t matter, she’d deal with it later. Shepard added it to the list of questions she had for Lawson when they made it out of the Cerberus complex and readied her stance.

Three enemies. Limited ammunition. A body that wasn’t responding one hundred percent to her mental reflexes. She waited for a break in the automatons’ firing, took a deep breath, and leaned around the corner.

Three shots, slower and more focused than before. Three whistling cracks as the ceramic armor plating on the automatons’ heads shattered into pieces. Three ungainly crashes as the units lost motor functions and clattered noisily to the floor.

That was more like it.

 

* * *

 

If it wasn’t certain that the automaton labs were compromised before, the steadily increasing number of hostile brass soldiers as they approached the security checkpoint was evidence enough to confirm it. There seemed to be dozens of the things, and there was no sign of their numbers being exhausted any time soon.

From what Shepard could remember of automaton research - and her encounters with suspiciously similar mechanical constructs during her pursuit of Agent Arterius - the simple fact that the Knauss units  _could_  fold in and pack themselves tightly meant that she should expect a lot more in her near future.

At least she was able to scrounge spare coolant canisters off the destroyed constructs. Barring the acquisition of a  _proper_  firearm, her options were limited.

Maintaining the marksmanship form the Academy had drilled into her, and with Lawson and Wilson covering her with their multitools, Shepard pressed on.

"Damnation," she growled, as the troupe reached the checkpoint. The doors were locked from the inside, and there was no way to force the bulkheads open. Not with a handgun, at least.

"Taylor’s still alive," said Lawson, with a sigh of relief.

Wilson shook his head. “How do you figure that?”

"Because, you imbecile, there are only three people in this base who can manually trigger a full lockdown," Lawson snapped, waving her arm at the sealed bulkhead. "And two of them are in this room right now."

Shepard glanced between the two scientists and kept her mouth shut. She took advantage of the downtime to eject her current coolant canister and slot in a fresh one.

"Doesn’t mean he didn’t bite it afterwards, Miranda." Wilson threw up his hands. "He could have run into the heavy platforms, or one of the Knauss units might have gotten lucky. Or maybe the Shadow Broker airships out there got him."

Miranda spun around fast enough to whip her hair into her eyes. “ _He’s. Alive._ ”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Fine, if it means so much to you. He’s alive.” He tapped a button on his multitool, which unfolded into a plasma cutter. “It’ll take me about twenty minutes to cut through this.”

Shepard groaned. “Twenty minutes? I don’t have nearly enough gun for that.”

"It won’t be twenty minutes," said Lawson. She crossed the hallway and opened the door to the security station. "You two go ahead. I’ll stay here and open your path to the shuttle bay."

"That’s suicide!" shouted Wilson. "Miranda, you can’t—"

"It’s done," Lawson countered. The bulkhead unlocked with a loud  _thud_  and started to ratchet up into its recess. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up. Just get Shepard  _out of here_.”

 

* * *

 

The door to the security station slid shut, the clacking of the internal locking mechanisms almost echoing through the suddenly silent corridor.

"You heard the lady," Shepard said, bringing her weapon back up to a ready position. "Time to move."

Wilson’s muttering followed them as they moved into the Automaton Labs. It only increased in volume as they continued.

"So who’s this Taylor?" Shepard asked, sliding around the corner to clear the next room.

"Not a scientist. Cerberus officer, special ops."

Shepard stopped. “What’s special ops doing as security for mech research?”

Wilson glanced around nervously. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now.”

Shepard narrowed her eyes. “That’s not a good enough answer, Wilson. What’s happening here that you don’t want me to find out?”

Wilson’s eyes went wide, and it took Shepard a moment to realize that he wasn’t reacting to her at all. She spun around, pistol lining up against—

It was big. Ceramic plating covered every surface, providing armor for its more delicate workings. Shepard fired twice, striking the center of its mass with absolute precision, but the armor plating held - it didn’t even crack ominously as the spin-sealed aether bullets impacted against it.

The automaton’s arm raised almost casually, as big around as a tree trunk and probably just as heavy. A rotary cannon at the end of its arm started to spin up—

—when the entire automaton shattered with a bluish-green explosion. When the dust settled, a lightly-armored man stepped out from behind the pile of rubble. Shepard couldn’t see his features clearly at first; his arm was still raised; it and his eyes shared that same luminosity.

"Shepard," the man said in greeting. "Wilson. We don’t have much time. There’s more on the way."

Wilson shook his head. “You’re all going to be the death of me, I swear.”

The glow faded. The man was grinning; his mouth framed by a thin goatee. “I don’t have any plans for that. Try Miranda.”

"Hey!" Shepard shouted, drawing the attention of both men back to her. "Catch up later. Explain now."

"We don’t have  _time_ ,” Wilson whined, before the newcomer cut him off.

"She’s got a right to know. Shepard, my name is Jacob Taylor, and I’m with Cerberus."

"I know this is Cerberus," Shepard growled. "But nobody will tell me why  _I’m_  here, or why this place is so important that it needs special ops to play rent-a-cop.”

Taylor frowned for a moment, deep in thought, before he nodded. “That’s fair. Two questions, two answers, then we need to  _go_. Is that cool?”

"It’s better than nothing." She waited a moment. "Well?"

"It’s complicated," said Taylor. "First off, the reason I’m here as security is because  _you’re_  here. And you’ve been here ever since you died, two years ago.”

 

* * *

 

The head of a Knauss unit shattered, and two hundred pounds of metal and ceramic collapsed into a heap.

Miranda took a deep breath and checked the rest of the control center for unexpected surprises. That last automaton had unfolded itself out of a shipping crate that was tucked innocuously in the corner.

Content that it was clear, she set herself up at the security terminal and hunted in her pocket for her key. Each senior staff member had a master key to the security system, in case of emergency, and they were all cut specifically to recognize individual people. It would take the locksmiths hours to alter every terminal to add a key configuration, or to remove a lock tumbler setting - and security patrols and checkpoints were decidedly more frequent than that.

Miranda’s key, as befitting the highest ranking staff member in Project Lazarus, had the highest security clearance in the building. With it, she could override anyone else’s orders, open any door, and even manually control the base’s auto-cannons if necessary.

And she had left it back in the operating room.

"Damn it!" she shouted, pounding her fists on the console. "Brilliant as ever, Lawson." She shook her head and took a moment to reevaluate.

Right. The security console took hours to reset for a new key, but there was always a way around that,  _if_  she didn’t mind setting off every alarm and remote-activating all the local security automatons. Which, as it turned out, was not a downside, seeing as all the alarms were blaring and the tin soldiers were already gunning for her.

She spent the next five minutes wedging herself between the console and the wall, trying to get her multitool lined up to pop the maintenance panel off. Cursing her lab suit for its high-friction surfaces, she managed to get one screw loose off the panel, and missed the catch as it dropped to the dusty floor with a  _clink_  of metal striking metal.

Wait. That wasn’t right. The security post's floor was hardwood  over stone. The screw shouldn’t have clinked against metal.

Miranda groped around a bit on the dusty floor, finding the screw and—

"Son of a bitch," she breathed, starting to wiggle her way out from behind the console. Someone had lost their security key.

She pulled herself back up to the controls, slotted in the key, and took a look at her permissions. Not all the doors were under her command, but she could unlock an alternate route to the shuttle bay, both for the Shepard team and herself.

She toggled on the P.A. system. “Shepard, do you read me? I’m in the system, and there’s been a slight change of plans.”

 

* * *

 

"Understood," Shepard said, hitting the transmit button on the intercom.

She glanced back at her two companions and moved through the now open door. Wilson was still cowering in the rear, fiddling with the multitool gauntlet over his left wrist. Taylor had scooped up a firearm from a destroyed automaton and was swapping out the coolant cylinder.

"I don’t like this," Wilson moaned. "She’s changing the plan too much."

"It’s Miranda," responded Taylor, checking the sights on the barrel. "She knows what she’s doing."

"That’s what I’m worried about," Wilson countered. "Why are we under attack  _now_ , when we’ve had Shepard for the last two years? How did they find us?”

Shepard cleared the next hallway and motioned for the men to continue. “You think Lawson sold you out?”

Wilson made a sarcastic noise. “I think she sold  _you_  out.”

"Wilson." Taylor’s voice sounded reproachful.

"No, I’m serious. Don’t you think the timing is a little convenient?"

Shepard turned around to see Wilson counting facts off his fingers.

"One," Wilson was saying, "the attack happens two weeks before Shepard was supposed to wake up. Two, they know enough about our defenses to avoid the auto-cannons. Three, they take control of our automaton factory."

Shepard raised an eyebrow incredulously. “You were under attack for  _two weeks_?”

Wilson hesitated. “You woke up early. That wasn’t expected.”

"And it’s damned good you did, too," added Taylor, giving a slow grin. "Otherwise I don’t know if we’d be walking out of here alive."

"We still haven’t," Wilson muttered darkly.

Shepard stopped to wait for the signal that Lawson had unlocked the next security door. “So what, why are they looking for me? You said I was dead for two years.”

"That’s right."

She shook her head. “There will be  _many_  questions about that later,” she said, echoing the declaration she had made earlier.

Rolling her shoulder, she turned to Wilson. “Why do you think Lawson’s behind it?”

"Who else has that kind of access?"

Taylor grinned again and moved forward as the lock finally cycled and the door started moving. “You do.”

"And of the two of us, who’s standing right here in harm’s way, and who’s controlling Security?" Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "Keep your lips firmly attached to Miranda’s backside all you want, but I for one plan to  _live_.”

As if on cue, Lawson’s voice crackled from the intercom. “ _Shepard, I’m showing a large group of signals in the room ahead. There’s no way around it, you’re going to have to fight your way through._ ”

Wilson gestured towards the intercom, as if to say  _See? See what I mean?_

"How much farther to the shuttle bay?" Shepard asked, holding down the intercom button.

“ _Two more chambers. The door beyond is the last one; I’m working on unlocking it now and then I’ll—_ ”

There was a high-pitched screech of feedback, and the intercom faded to a low background crackle.

"Lawson?" Shepard demanded. "Lawson, report!"

There was no answer.

"What did I say?" Wilson grumbled. "She set us up."

"Or she got attacked," Taylor countered, checking the status of his firearm once more. "Which means that either way, we’re on our own until she catches up with us at the shuttle bay."

"You know these things better than I do," said Shepard. She checked her ammunition, settled back into her ready position, and readied herself by the door release. Her marksmanship form still felt awkward and unsteady, but muscle memory was starting to catch up to her mental reflexes once more. "What’s the best way through?"

Taylor frowned in thought. “Split down the sides, catch them in a crossfire. Wilson goes left; hit them from behind with your multitool. Shepard, you and I go right, draw their fire.” He nodded, then brought his left hand up. “You know yourself better than I know you, so you call the shots. I’m an aethermancer—” There was a quick burst of blue-green light in his palm to demonstrate. "—so just give the word and I’ll hit them with the good stuff."

Shepard nodded, then moved her gaze back to Wilson. He nodded at her and held up his multitool, unfolded on his wrist. He had proven adept at firing darts at the automatons’ control centers, each holding enough charge to overload the circuitry cluster and shut the units down.

Holding up her hand in a silent signal, she hit the release for the door and slid through it.

An entire brass battalion turned to greet her.

Bullets saturated the air between the gathered automaton army and the door, the deadly hailstorm of spin-sealed aether narrowly missing Shepard and Taylor as they dove for cover behind a stack of shipping containers. The heavy wood of the crates did little more than splinter under normal gunfire, but to call this normal gunfire was the same as calling the Great Maelstrom a “weather pattern”. Or the Turian Hierarchy’s Glorious Armada a “handful of airships”.

"Going well so far!" Taylor shouted over the din. His eyes were ablaze with equal parts reckless abandon and aethermancy, the supernatural glow almost crackling over his dark skin like miniature lightning. "I was going to ask, is this a normal day for you?"

Shepard leaned out of cover and squeezed off a couple shots, taking out a pair of stragglers at the edge of the mob. “No, sometimes it gets downright  _dangerous_.”

Taylor laughed and sent out a pair of iridescent bolts of energy from his outstretched hand, impacting in the center of the crowd of mechs and detonating. Shattered ceramic plating filled the air, adding to the flying bullets and splinters from the increasingly shredded crates.

Shepard glanced up, hoping there was something she could drop on the slowly-advancing automatons. A shipping crate suspended from a loading hook, or suspended worklights. Something heavy that she could shoot down. To her great disappointment, there was nothing there. No painters’ scaffolding, not even an ornate chandelier.

Another complaint to lodge against Cerberus, whenever she got out of this lab. It was almost as if they had no consideration for an escapee shooting their way out of their fortress-like research facility.

Between her gunfire, Taylor’s aethermancy, and Wilson’s multitool striking from the shadows, they managed to whittle their assailants down to a smoking pile of scrap.

"I think it’s time for us to leave," Shepard said, punctuating her statement with the ejection of her last coolant canister.

Wilson rushed to a side door to the chamber. “Come on, the way out is through here!”

Taylor shook his head. “No, Wilson. Shuttle bay is through the big doors, remember?”

"Shortcut," insisted Wilson. "Come on, we don’t want to get caught off-guard—"

The door opened in front of Wilson, revealing Miranda Lawson - bloody, bruised, and slightly burned from what looked like a greasy explosion.

"No," she said, "I’d imagine you wouldn’t." She reached into the pocket of her jumpsuit, freezing her hand in place as Wilson raised his multitool.

"Miranda. You’re supposed to be—"

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Dead?” She slowly pulled her hand out of her pocket and held up a key. “I’m sure it would have been a lot easier for you if I had been.”

"What’s going on, Miranda?" Taylor asked, his voice low. His hand had dropped to his sidearm, but he had not yet removed it from its holster.

There was a thought that had been niggling at the back of Shepard’s subconscious for the greater part of this escape, and while she couldn’t quite put it into words, it started hammering away at her thoughts. Something about that key was  _important_.

As if responding to Shepard’s unspoken question, Miranda dropped the key in front of Wilson’s face. His hand reached out reflexively to catch it. There was a mix of emotions that played across his features - surprise, dismay, and… guilt?

Shepard raised her own weapon and pointed it at Wilson’s head. “Start talking.”

Wilson’s voice shook. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m just trying to get out of here!”

"Bullshit," Miranda spat. "This is  _your_  security key. I found it in behind the console, the one that conveniently unlocked the automaton control center and reset its targeting.” She raised her own firearm. “How much did they pay you for Shepard’s body, Wilson? More than what Harper’s giving you?”

The thought that had been jumping up and down on Shepard’s brain finally clicked into place. “Back in the lab, you said it was the Shadow Broker’s forces. How would you have known that, unless you knew about the attack in the first place?”

Miranda groaned. “Of course. The Broker’s the only one who could even possibly match your price.” She stepped forward, pressing her gun into Wilson’s forehead, completely ignoring the tip of his multitool that was even now resting against her throat. “But why? Why now?”

Wilson sighed, giving up all pretense. “Because I have  _eyes_ , Miranda. Do you really not know what Harper is doing? Don’t you know what he _is_?”

"He was your last chance at getting out of here alive," responded Lawson. Her eyes turned cold, and before Shepard could say anything to stop her, she pulled the trigger.

Taylor shook his head and stepped over the rapidly-cooling body. “This is way above my pay-grade,” he said, slipping through the door behind Lawson.

Shepard just stared. She didn’t lower her weapon, not yet. “What the  _fuck_.”

"We need to leave," said Lawson. "Once they realize that Wilson’s not going to deliver you as planned, they’ll stop playing games with our defenses and burn this place to the ground."

"Or what," Shepard responded, "you’ll shoot me too?"

Lawson just shook her head. “Jacob and I are leaving this rock with or without you, Shepard. I’d rather you not waste our investment, but if you want to take your chances with the Shadow Broker, be my guest. At least with us, you know your chances.”

With a muttered curse, Shepard lowered her borrowed firearm and shouldered past Lawson. “I expect answers, or I’m walking.”

"You don’t think we could stop you?"

Shepard whirled around and got  _right up_  in Lawson’s face. “Try,  _Cerberus_. Just try.”

She stomped off into the waiting shuttle without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX - AETHERTECH FIREARMS
> 
> Following the establishment of the Kingdoms Alliance and rising costs of ammunition in the years afterwards, scientists across the world worked around the clock to adapt modern weapons to aethertech principles. The result was the M-7 Lancer, a rifle that fired "bullets" of spin-sealed aether instead of lead or other heavy metals.
> 
> "Stock" aethertech firearms consist of three primary components, which are universal across all makes and models.
> 
> The EXTRACTOR, which extracts ambient aether from the firearm's surroundings, is normally housed above the trigger assembly. This extractor functions in any level of atmosphere and even under water, and requires a simple intake and exhaust port, which normally vents at the bottom of the grip.
> 
> The COMPRESSOR takes the extracted aether and compacts it into a whirling, tangible ball, using a rapidly rotating chamber to press it into shape - a process known as "spin-sealing". At the point of maximum pressure, the compressor opens into the firing chamber and the aether "bullet" exits the barrel of the weapon at extremely high speeds.
> 
> These two components work in tandem with the trigger assembly, and take place so fast as to be near-simultaneous. This generates a lot of heat, which is handled by the third component, the COOLANT SYSTEM. Weapons made prior to the Geth Invasion of the Citadel in 2183 utilized a recycling coolant reservoir, which dissipated the heat of the weapon somewhat efficiently on its own. This system had a tendency to overload over bursts of heavy use, leaving the firearm inoperable for a period as the coolant channels ventilated. Certain savvy individuals of the Alliance military managed to weaponize this downtime, however, and often closed to melee range to allow the firearm to vent its heat directly into their opponent's faces - this has become known in some circles as a Hackett Special, named after an innovative - if particularly ruthless - young soldier.
> 
> Weapons manufacturers the world over have incorporated other designs into their weapons, which were endlessly copied and improved upon over the years. This resulted in modern firearms becoming modular, allowing the user to pick and choose integrated modifications and devices into their weaponry as they choose - provided they do not interfere with the operation of the primary three components.


	2. The Price of Freedom

The shuttle broke through the storm barrier into the Central Expanse, parting through the final cloud layer and into honest sunlight. It was always dangerous to transition between planes in a vessel that was not massive enough to ignore the turbulent passage through the storms, and for the majority of the trip, Shepard had tried not to cling to her safety harness for moral support.

She was the captain of a ship, damn it. Commander of the Naval Special Forces to boot, and a Spectre of the Citadel Council. She did not show fear in enemy territory, even from the forces of nature itself.

The whiteness of her knuckles as she clenched down on her seat was also thankfully hidden by the rest of the scars on her skin. Marks she was not born with, nor did she ever remember recieving.

"Alright," she said to the other occupants of the shuttle. "We’re through, and this death trap isn’t about to shake itself to pieces anymore. I’ve been accommodating enough under the circumstances, but I think it’s time for some damned  _answers_.”

Lawson and Taylor, seated opposite Shepard, shared a Look between themselves.

Shepard sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in a futile effort to prevent the oncoming headache. “Alright. Let’s start with the basics. What is today’s date?”

"It is the eleventh of April," Lawson responded. "In the Year of Our King, 2185."

"Happy Birthday, by the way," Taylor added. "We’d have gotten you something but we thought you’d still be asleep. And not, y’know,  _running for our lives_.”

Lawson punched him in the shoulder.

"2185," Shepard repeated. "You weren’t lying, then? I was gone for  _two years_?”

She turned to look out the shuttle’s porthole. The Expanse was mostly as she remembered it - great broken crags of landmass, clouds above and below marking the plane transitions, and the Great Western Maelstrom thundering inexorably on in the distance, reaching as far up to the sky and down through the Lower Terminus as she could see. From her vantage point, she could even see the navigation buoys, their lights blinking merrily as they guided airships through the skies.

Except there were far too many buoys for her to reasonably be able to see from where the shuttle was. There were only the primary trade routes between the Council homelands, and many of the minor landmasses only had landing beacons to direct travelers.

Except the Maelstrom was larger, or perhaps closer, than it ever had been before, likely accounting for two years of meteorological change.

Except even the interior of the shuttle was unfamiliar to Shepard. The wooden hull and steel reinforcements were standard, of course, but the instrumentation was different. Gone were the dials and valves of normal ship operation; this one seemed to have nothing but buttons and levers. Buttons that didn’t seem to even be connected to anything visible, and at the center of the console was a small grey box with a circular, irising lid on the top.

The world was different. Not unrecognizable, certainly not after only two years, but enough had changed that she was uncomfortable.

And Shepard did not hold with uncomfortable.

"I was  _dead_. For two years.” She scratched at the back of her head, trying not to notice how the skin was cracked and pained her at her touch. “What killed me?”

"We’re not sure exactly," said Lawson. "But whatever it was, it destroyed your ship. Killed half your crew. And you."

_cold. dark. can’t breathe. can’t see._

Shepard blinked away the disjointed memories. “So why bring me back? And, furthermore,  _how_?”

Taylor and Lawson shared another Look.

"We could answer that," Lawson began—

"You could, maybe," Taylor interrupted. "I’m just Explosions Guy, remember?"

"— _but it would probably be best if we didn’t_ ,” finished Lawson, shooting Taylor a Glare.

Shepard was impressed; not only was that on par with her own Glares, but Taylor seemed to just take it in stride.

"Instead, you’re going to hear it from the source."

Shepard blinked. “What do you mean, ‘the source’?”

Lawson gave her a small, self-congratulatory smile. “The person who ordered the Lazarus Project into existence in the first place. The man whose money rebuilt you.”

Taylor nodded. “We’re taking you to see Harper himself.”

 

* * *

**Chapter 2:  
The Price of Freedom**

* * *

 

Everything Shepard knew about Cerberus - a great deal of it seen first-hand - told her that it was an organization that thrived on chaos. Formerly an Alliance black-ops unit, Cerberus was devoted to protecting the Human Kingdoms from any outside influences. And when the leaders of the unit determined that the Kingdoms Alliance itself was already “irreversibly contaminated”, it broke away for more private operations.

Operations that involved illegal experimentation, economic warfare, profiteering, blackmail, and even assassination. Shepard had stumbled across countless research bases on her previous mission, bases which were already halfway thrown into disarray by failed experiments breaking loose and leaving a path of destruction on their way to freedom.

She hadn’t ever expected to view it from  _that_  perspective, but then again, she figured, you never truly knew what you would do tomorrow until tomorrow came.

All of this had built up her own concept of what Cerberus leadership was like. Anything that chaotic, that  _insane_ , would have a similarly chaotic head. Someone who would value opulence and extravagance above common sense, who would live a decadent life, and administrate from the lap of luxury itself.

She was not expecting…  _utilitarian_.

The shuttle landed at a simple brick warehouse, with simple - if slightly too-clean - windows and an aluminum loading dock shuttered door. The lot was surrounded by a neatly-trimmed lawn, a small group of groundcars clustered at the northern entrance, and a simple metal sign that read:

**HARPER HOLDINGS, LTD**

The sign was also adorned with the dual-chevron logo, cut from brushed steel and what appeared to be a golden inlay, that Shepard remembered passing at various points in their escape from the research lab.

The interior was just as incomprehensibly dull. A beige reception desk was staffed by a bored-looking man in a business suit. The walls were wood paneling, lined by beige fabric chairs and a plain wooden end table, currently piled with newspapers.

Shepard picked one up and checked the date. April 11th, 2185. She put it back down with a sigh.

Taylor and Lawson had taken seats in the lobby and were looking up at her expectantly.

"What?" asked Shepard, a little defensively. "Are we waiting for something?"

"This is your appointment, Shepard," said Lawson, while Taylor leaned back and closed his eyes. "We’re not invited."

"Fine," Shepard said. She headed for the nearest door. "Where am I going?"

"Straight ahead, end of the hall," said the man at the desk. "Past the security checkpoint. You can’t miss it."

The checkpoint was unstaffed; a pair of non-descript security guards were visible in the breakroom behind the counter, both seated at a plastic folding table. One had his feet up while he listened to something on the radio - Shepard couldn’t make out the tune at this distance, and if it was anything more recent than two years ago, she wouldn’t have known it anyway - while the other one was eating breakfast out of a bowl. They glanced up as she passed by, but made no move to stop her.

She paid them no further attention.

The office at the end of the hall was decorated similarly to the front lobby - beige and tan. There were a pair of padded chairs along the wall, a glass-topped coffee table in front of the chairs, heavy canvas curtains covering the office’s only window on the western wall, and a wooden coat rack behind the door. The only concessions to what Shepard considered “proper” aesthetics were the ornate grandfather clock against the western wall, a painting of sunrise over Londinium Keep, and what appeared to be a forty-year-old rifle on display hooks - probably Contact War vintage, by the workmanship.

Seated at the desk was a man. He was old enough to probably have used that rifle when it was new, but not so far beyond middle age that he couldn’t pick it back up right then and there. He was wearing a simple business suit, sans jacket - it was slung haphazardly across the back of his chair - with the tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up past his shoulders. He ignored Shepard as she entered the office, choosing instead to continue working at an older-model typewriter. A cigarette was clenched between his teeth, and he moved it from the left side of his mouth to the right as he typed, his eyes glued to an open ledger.

After a minute - in which Shepard was getting increasingly irritated - he looked up from his work. He took the cigarette out from between his teeth and held it to his side. “Shepard,” he said. “It’s good to finally meet you. In the flesh, as it were, especially considering that you didn’t  _have_  any the last time I dropped by.”

Shepard narrowed her eyes. “Jack Harper. I have nothing to say to you.”

"No? Not even ‘thank you’?" Harper took a puff on his cigarette and stood up from the desk. "I wasn’t the one who cast you off your dying ship. I didn’t fill your lungs with toxins and smash you against the rocks."

He took another puff on his cigarette and moved over towards the window. “But I did pull your body out of that miasma, just as I pulled your soul out of the pit of Tartarus itself.”

Shepard crossed her arms. “ _Why?_ ”

"Because unlike the rest of the world, I believe you." Harper turned to the window and threw back the heavy curtains.

Shepard revised her estimation of the aesthetic qualities of Harper’s office. The window provided an amazing view of the rocky outcroppings at the edge of the current continental platform and a trail of geological wreckage, endlessly trailing into the swirling titanic monstrosity that was the Great Western Maelstrom.

For hundreds, maybe even thousands of years, scientists have tried to understand the Maelstrom. Radar couldn’t penetrate the outer shell of storms, and as far as Shepard knew, every attempt to send an airship through it had either resulted in total destruction, or the complete disappearance of the ship and crew, never to be heard from again.

The last she had read about the Maelstrom, most research projects had been effectively halted, or turned into simple monitor stations. The Maelstrom itself just continued to exist, growing and shrinking in size, never deviating from its fixed point in the Expanse.

"The Kingdoms Alliance are dancing to the Citadel’s tune," said Harper, turning back to Shepard. If it hadn’t been morning, the sunlight would be streaming in from such a way to silhouette him against its glare, but in the early morning he was simply framed dynamically against the Maelstrom churning away in the background. "The word is that Nazara acted alone, that the Reapers are simply an old children’s tale, meant to scare the populace and cause dissent in the military. You and I know differently."

"And what is it that ‘we’ know?"

Harper took a long drag on his cigarette, then dropped the remaining length to the ground and crushed it.

"You’re not the only one who read Dr. T’Soni’s report," he said. "The Reapers are returning to the world of the living. And what you don’t know is that they’ve been active during the last two years."

"What do you mean?" Shepard asked. "How active? What have they been doing?"

Harper grinned. “Now, Shepard, what happened to ‘I have nothing to say to you’?”

Shepard closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and silently counted to ten before she opened them again. “In the last three hours, I’ve been brought back from the dead, shot at, nearly  _exploded_ , and the only person who’s given me a single goddamned answer tried to sell me to the Shadow Broker.  _I am in no mood for games_.”

"Then pick your questions better," Harper replied. "The long and short of it is, it’s all conjecture at the moment. I have no concrete evidence to show you, no fancy photography or recorded sound."

He pulled an antique silver case out of his pocket, selected a cigarette, and replaced the case. From his other pocket he withdrew an ornate lighter and, with a practiced flick of his thumb, struck a blue-green flame to light the cigarette.

"What I do have," he continued, "is a puzzle. There are many pieces, but I don’t have the big picture." Puff. "Not yet."

Despite her misgivings (and her sense of human decency  _screaming_  at her to turn around, walk out the door, and order an air strike against the building), Shepard nodded and motioned for him to continue. The Council had listened to her warnings about the Reapers, after all. Listened, and smiled, and patted her on the head for saving them, and had sent her away to scout for more of Saren’s geth.

And yet here was Jack Harper, patronizing and slimy, yet he was taking her warnings seriously.

Another long drag on the cigarette. “There are reports of human colonies in the Lower Terminus disappearing without a trace. I’ve sent scouts to every single one of them, but they all had one thing in common.”

"Let me guess," Shepard said. "Mangled bodies. Dessicated corpses." She suppressed a shiver. If she had to live through another one of those husks leaping up to attack her after she dismissed it for dead, it would be one too many.

"Not even that," said Harper. "These were functional colonies. Families with children, working factories, even a full radio tower. Every single one of them looked like it was populated maybe even an hour prevous. And every single one of them was completely empty."

He walked back over to his desk, leaving the curtains over the window open. “No weapons fire. No distress beacon on the radio tower. Absolutely no sign that anything was out of place. But no people.”

"Maybe they all moved away?" Shepard asked. She knew it was a stupid question, but it needed to be asked anyway. Shepard was nothing if not thorough.

"If they did, they were in a hurry," Harper responded. "Especially to leave all their vehicles in the airfield, food in their iceboxes, and pets locked up in their houses. No, all evidence points to them being taken, and there’s a pattern."

He picked a manila folder off the top of his desk and opened it. “Every colony belonged to the Kingdoms Alliance. Every one was in the Lower Terminus. And every one was entirely human.”

"Even if that’s true, what makes you think it’s Reapers?" Shepard uncrossed her arms and walked over to look at the folder. "Nazara may have been subtle, but it didn’t hide when it could strike."

"Pieces of the puzzle," Harper repeated. "I don’t have the big picture, but I’ve got enough put together that I can see the shape of things." He took a sheet of paper from the pile inside the folder and moved it to the top. "And I think we’ve been handed a corner."

The paper was a copy of the colonization rights for a stretch of land in the Terminus. Shepard could see photographs, a rough map of the colony, and the names of each of the signatories. At the top was the name “FREEDOM’S PROGRESS”.

"About two hours ago," said Harper, flipping through the pages, "there was a distress call from the Lower Terminus. This is the first time we have a record of whatever is attacking these colonies."

"Why are you telling me this, though?" Shepard asked. "I’m not one of your lackeys. I cleared out a few of your bases, if you’ll remember."

"You don’t work for me, that’s true." Puff. "But you can feel this in your bones. This is the work of the Reapers."

Harper pressed the envelope into Shepard’s hands. “Take a shuttle. Go to Freedom’s Progress, find any evidence you can take back. Take Miranda and Jacob, they can finish answering any other questions you might have. You can do whatever you want with the information; you can turn right around and walk out that door, and you won’t ever hear from me again. But find out for yourself, if what I say is worth your time.”

 

* * *

 

The shuttle broke through the storm barrier and sailed through the dusky skies of the Lower Terminus once more. The trip had taken the better part of the day, leaving Shepard adequate time to read through Jack Harper’s copy of the Project Lazarus papers. She didn’t understand most of the science - the bulk of aethertech that concerned her mainly had to do with weaponry or airship drive cores, and even that she always left firmly in the capable hands of the crew in the engine room.

Most of the answers about her condition were filed away to think about later - there was no time to spiral into an ethical quandary or religious/existential dread. She was back, and she was  _herself_ , as far as she was able to tell - the ramifications could be sorted out later. She had something far more important to worry about.

The majority of her questions were not about Shepard herself, however, but rather the status of her crewmates and those that rode along on her last big mission. Miranda and Jacob - for she had gotten familiar enough with them that it was difficult to keep their interactions impersonal, and was therefore more inclined to use their given names - had answered these to the best of their ability, but any information they actually had was either out of date, or of too little consequence to mention.

Lance-Corporal Garrus Vakarian had reapplied for his commission in the Citadel’s constabulary, but had not lasted long in the normal rank and file of the police. He had resigned once more and disappeared.

Doctor Liara T’Soni had survived the calamity that befell the  _Normandy_ , but had not been seen since.

Tali’Zorah nar Rayya returned to her flotilla in the Heavenly Reaches, presumably to complete her Pilgrimage.

Urdnot Wrex had taken the first shuttle back to the Aralakh Wastelands, and at last report was causing “political turmoil” in the Tuchankan Demilitarized Zone.

Of the commissioned and enlisted crew of the Normandy, Miranda and Jacob had no word. At least half had survived, that much was certain, but getting names of those lost would not be possible without additional contact with the Kingdoms Alliance.

Shepard fought back a growing unease as she contemplated how alone she truly was.

Existential woes would have to wait until  _later_.

She had far more important things to worry about.

Freedom’s Progress was supposed to be a marvel of human engineering. The first of many colonies below the storm barrier of the Lower Terminus, it sacrificed its own airships for true self-sufficiency. The hull had been designed to be modular, and had been separated and used in the assembly of the prefabricated living units, while the aethertech drive core was converted into a reactor that powered the entire town.

The colony had expanded since its construction, and local sources of wood and metal were found. Around the outskirts of the main city were hand-built cottages, freshly plowed farmland, and even schoolyards for the growing population.

It was supposed to be the first step into a larger world. It was symbolic of humanity’s resilience, their resolve.

It was a ghost town.

The shuttle set down in the outskirts of the primary residential district. Where there should have been mid-day traffic, there was nothing. Carriages were parked sedately on the side of the road. The daily bustle of agriculture and industry was nowhere to be seen, nor could it be heard.

The only sound was the crackle in the power lines overhead.

"Reactor’s still active," said Miranda, scanning the area with her multitool. "Electricity’s at normal levels, so whatever hit this place left the drive core alone."

"They weren’t after the tech," Jacob added.

Shepard ignored them, instead choosing to walk up to a house and peering inside. “Lights are on,” she said. “All of them, in the middle of the day.”

Miranda frowned and came up to join her. “Strange. Standard colonial policy is to conserve power during the day, until the town is large enough to have a backup reactor built.”

Shepard went over to the front door and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. She opened the door and let herself in.

The house was simple, but clearly lived in. Whoever the owners were, they knew they were in it for the long haul, and hadn’t anticipated any sort of swift evacuation - corners and tables didn’t accumulate that sort of clutter in a temporary structure.

Jacob had moved through the living room towards the kitchen. “Guys,” he called. “You’d better get in here.”

The kitchen table was set for a family of four. Eggs and breakfast meats sat on plates, half-eaten and cold.

Shepard narrowed her eyes at the sight. Two of the plates were smaller than the others, and the utensils had soft, rounded edges. She glared around the room, angrily daring whoever had attacked to show themselves.

As with the approach to the house, she was met with silence.

Every house along the street was the same in theme, if not the specific details. Breakfast lay undisturbed, uneaten, or even congealing on a stovetop. Bedrooms were disheveled not from any struggle, but with morning routine.

With every building they inspected, Shepard’s unease grew. What had happened here? Where had the people gone? Were any of them still alive?

Was what took them still around?

Miranda and Jacob were feeling it too, Shepard could tell. Neither of them had said a word since the first house. Their movements had become precise and swift, evidence of military training for both of them. Which had made sense for Jacob, of course - hired security often came from military or constabulary backgrounds. But Miranda had been introduced to Shepard as a  _scientist_. She’d had to escort civilians through live fire more than once, and panic was always a factor. Miranda, however, ghosted from vantage point to cover, her dark tan outfit blurring her profile enough that anyone trying to draw a bead on her would have an issue.

There weren’t that many scientists that had special forces training, and the ones that did were ones to watch.

A crash from one of the nearby houses drew Shepard’s attention, and the three of them converged on a building they had not yet scouted. The house matched the rest on the street - prefab, maintained lawn, carriage in the driveway.

Unlike the rest of the houses on the street, however, this one was dark. There was no sign of interior lights, and the curtains on all the windows were drawn.

Shepard raised her hand in a silent signal, saw the two nods in response, and prepared to enter the house.

 

* * *

 

A gloved hand pulled back the curtains. A khelish curse hissed through air filters.

"They’re coming."

Three hooded figures turned towards the window. Rifles were raised hurriedly - the urgency of their mission weighed heavily on all those involved.

There were only two that didn’t move at the warning. One woman - a Reegar, by the clan markings on her suit - was laid out on the floor, violet blood staining the tan carpet underneath her. The other had her hands pressed to the Reegar woman’s abdomen, keeping pressure on the wound and trying to keep her alive.

"Who’s coming?" she asked, not bothering to look up. She reached into her pack for another vial of disinfectant - gut shots had a nasty tendency to go septic even without help from their immune systems.

"Humans," was the reply.

“ _They wouldn’t have seen us if Prazza hadn’t knocked over the lamp._ ”

“ _What do you mean, ‘if Prazza hadn’t knocked over the lamp’—_ ”

Tali of clan Zorah, daughter of the Migrant Fleet of the Chosen People, finished packing the wound and stood up. “What kind of humans?” she asked.

The quarian near the window looked outside again. “Two females, one male. No markings that I can—wait.”

"— _I mean if it hadn’t been for me, we wouldn’t have even found him—_ ”

Tali put her hand on the arm of the nearest soldier and pushed the gun  _down_ , out of ready position. “If they were the ones that hit the colony, there’d be a lot more than three of them.”

“ _—I wasn’t even supposed to_ be _here today—_ ”

"Shut up, Prazza," Tali growled. "Ruva, what were you saying?"

Ruvadh’Reegar squinted as she peered out the window. “Lead female has markings on her outfit. Black and gold.”

"Could mean anything," Tali admitted, though she didn’t quite believe that. Black and gold was  _familiar_  to her, oh yes.

"What do we do, ma’am?" Ruvadh asked.

Tali sighed. Her left hand clenched and unclenched, the fabric of her suit rubbing together in a soothing fashion. ”Let them in, Prazza.”

"What? No!"

"That was an  _order_ , you bosh’tet,” Tali growled. “Or did you forget that I was in charge on this mission?”

Prazza’s eyes widened in offense. “We are your bodyguards, ‘princess’, not your soldiers—”

"And you’re doing such a wonderful job of it, too," Tali interrupted, swiping a lock of hair out of her eyes. The sticky wetness on her forehead reminded her that her hands were still covered in Danae’s blood, but she was too far beyond caring at the moment. "Considering that it was your catlike tread that drew their attention? Means it’s now  _your responsibility_.  _Open the damned door_.”

Prazza opened the door, and after a moment of surprised silence, two humans entered. The first was dark-skinned, male, and moved with an almost casual strut. Behind him was a woman with light skin, dark hair, and a similarly feline gait.

Only people who were extremely comfortable with their bodies moved with such a measured precision. It took a lot of training to move that causally while keeping every one of the quarians within line of sight, and while their weapons weren’t pointed directly at anyone, neither were they holstered. They were both clad in dark tan coveralls, both embroidered with a black and gold chevron that confirmed Tali’s suspicions.

Cerberus. Even if she hadn’t had personal experience with Cerberus, the Migrant Fleet was all too aware of their existence.

She almost gave the order to fire, right then and there. Two Cerberus officers, no matter how they tried to disguise themselves as low-ranking workmen? It was almost a gift. The floating cities had fallen on hard times lately - harder than usual - and the quarian people were desperate for good news,  _any_  good news. Swift retribution would almost be divine providence.

Then the third human entered the abandoned house, and Tali’s heart nearly jumped into her throat.

It was impossible. It went against all scientific reason, beyond any rational doubt. The woman in front of her couldn’t be there, couldn’t exist. It had been  _two years_. Tali had attended her funeral service!

And yet, the hair was the right shade of reddish-brown, if a bit haggard and unkempt. The eyes were properly green, though they were tired and wary. The way she held herself was  _painfully_ familiar - military trained, almost gender-neutral stance, a spring tightly wound that would uncoil in a deadly strike at any moment.

Then their eyes met, and the flash of hopeful recognition was unmistakable.

"Shepard—" Tali began, before the woman rushed forward and gathered her up in a bone-crushing hug.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it wasn’t the most dignified reaction. It may not have even been wise to show a vulnerability when surrounded by both Cerberus and wary quarians, all of whom had weapons out and pointed in her general direction.

Shepard officially did not care.

She clung to Tali like a life preserver - for that’s what the girl felt like, a rock of sanity in the hurricane the last day had become. It was one thing to be told that her life had been returned, after all, and that she was the same person she had always been, but from the moment she woke up on that lab table, Shepard had been surrounded by uncertainty. Nothing was familiar to her; not the people, not the technology.

But there, in front of her, was someone from her life. Someone she not only knew, but considered family.

There was no number of gun-wielding quarians that could ruin this moment for her.

"Shepard, I can’t breathe."

Shepard reluctantly relaxed her grip, and held Tali out at arm’s length. “Tali, you have no idea how good it is to see you.”

"I have some idea," said Tali, the light on the front of her breath mask glowing in time with her words. But despite the sardonic tone, Tali’s eyes were full of surprise, shock, and  _hope_. “What are you even doing here? Shepard, you’re supposed to be  _dead_!”

"I got better," Shepard said, then shrugged at Tali’s suspicious glare. "It’s a long story."

"And why are you with Cerberus?" asked the quarian by the front door, one who still had his rifle aimed directly at Shepard’s head.

"Shut up, Prazza," Tali snapped.

"It’s a valid question!" the quarian by the door - Prazza, apparently - said, his tone highly offended. "I thought you said Commander Shepard was everything that was good about the humans, not one of those Cerberus bosh’tets."

"Shut  _up_ , Prazza!” Tali repeated. She reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose, took a deep breath, then returned her focus to Shepard. “But, yes. What are you doing with these Cerberus bosh’tets?”

Shepard glanced over at Miranda and Jacob, who were still holding their weapons. “I’m not with them. They’re with me.” She filled them in on her current mission.

Tali nodded. “The same for us, actually. We’re looking for a friend, who’s here on his Pilgrimage.”

Prazza nearly had a fit. “That is classified information! Who knows what they’re  _really_  here for?”

Tali’s lavender skin flushed to a deeper purple. “Keelah, Prazza, I swear I will  _leave you here_ —”

The woman in a red hood near the window raised her arm. “Relax, ma’am, I’ve got this.” She grabbed Prazza by the shoulder and started hauling him, spluttering in indignation, out the door. “Come on, everyone, let’s go secure the perimeter.”

Nobody moved, until the woman met them all with the most terrifying glare that Shepard had ever seen - especially since her eyes were the only part of her face that anyone  _could_  see. Reluctantly, the rest of the quarian squad filed out of the house.

"Come on, Miranda," Jacob said, "let’s give them a hand."

Miranda looked like she wanted to say something, but simply nodded and followed Jacob out the door.

And then, barring the unconscious woman on the floor, Tali and Shepard were alone.

Tali walked a slow circle around Shepard, giving her a wary once-over. “Keelah, it really  _is_ you, isn’t it?”

"In the flesh," Shepard confirmed. "Mostly flesh, I mean. They did some prosthetics, apparently, and my liver really is made of iron now, but as far as I can tell, I’m still me."

Tali gave Shepard another hug, then pulled away almost as quickly. “You look terrible,” she said.

Shepard rolled her eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

Tali flapped her hands dismissively. “You know what I mean.”

"Look at you, though, all grown up," Shepard said. "Is that a new suit?"

Tali glanced down at herself. “No, actually. You know the Flotilla, Shepard. ‘Don’t replace what you can repair.’” She tapped a section on her chest, resulting in a dull  _thunk_. “It’s way better now, though, see? Boiled leather, titanium mesh underlay. Not even a krogan with a meat cleaver can cut through this.”

Shepard gave an appreciative nod. The rest of Tali’s suit alternated between similar trauma plates in the most important locations, and more flexible materials at the joints. Most of those vulnerable spots were covered by silk scarves, dyed purple and patterned with graceful whorls and knots. The same patterned silk made up her traditional hood, which covered all but the most stubborn wisps of the girl’s dark hair.

"I’m impressed," Shepard said. And she was, too. Tali had come a long way from the terrified girl she had met on the Citadel. Whatever had happened to her in the last two years had obviously done her a favor; she was confident, assertive, and in command of whatever mission the quarians were on.

Which reminded her…

"Come with me," said Shepard. "After we leave this colony. I could use someone of your skill, and a friendly face wouldn’t hurt, either."

"I’d love to," Tali said, apologetically. "But I really can’t. We still need to find what happened to Veetor, and my people need me, Shepard." She started clenching and relaxing her right hand, probably unaware she was doing it. "We’re doing important work for the Flotilla, you know."

"What kind of work?"

"I, ah. I can’t say." Tali gave her an almost guilty look. "Not while you’re with Cerberus."

"I’m not—"

"I know, you said." Tali shrugged her shoulders. "But you walk in with them, wearing their clothes, and where are you going to go after this? I trust you, Shepard. But I don’t trust  _them_.” She pointed out the window, where Jacob and Miranda could be seen through the break in the curtains. “And neither should you.”

 

* * *

 

"So what’s the plan?" Jacob asked, when Shepard and Tali made their way outside.

"We’re working with the quarians," Shepard responded, ignoring Prazza’s scoff of indignation. "They’ve already cleared this sector of automatons, but they’re thickest over by the security station at the city’s power center. Our best bet to find out what happened to the colonists is to check the security tapes. Tali’s hoping that the same will hold true for locating Veetor’Nara."

"We have more soldiers with us," Tali added, directing her own voice to her compatriots, "so we’ll be providing cover for Shepard. Find all the mechs we can and draw their fire. The humans will sneak in the back and shut them down from Security."

"They’re  _Cerberus_ ,” Prazza pointed out. “Why are we trusting them? They’d most likely leave us to die.”

Tali marched up to Prazza and shoved herself right into his personal space. “Do you see that woman over there?” she growled, her face inches away from his. “That is the woman who saved my life, stopped that  _thing_  from taking over the Citadel, and personally decompiled more geth than anyone else here  _combined_. As far as I am concerned, she so far outranks you that your squad commander prays to her for a bountiful harvest!  _Am I clear?_ ”

"Y-yes, ma’am!"

"Good." Tali took a deep breath and stalked away from the quivering marine. "Corma, get Danae to the shuttle and prepare for evac. Ruva, get everyone prepped for the forward push."

Shepard couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Look at you, all grown up,” she repeated. “Organizing missions and terrorizing FNGs.”

Tali’s eyes scrunched in an obvious grin. “What, you think I never watched you?”

"You’ve come a long way since the last time I saw you," said Shepard. "I’m proud of you."

Tali fell silent for a moment. Her face went blank. “It’s been a long two years,” she said, finally, then turned away and started barking orders to the rest of her squad.

 

* * *

 

The approach to the city’s center was relatively uneventful. There was the occasional security automaton, but Shepard was already familiar with their tactics and disabled them handily.

"You know, there’s a couple things that are really bugging me about the future," she said, casually severing a Knauss unit’s spinal control column with a well-placed shot.

"What future?" asked Jacob.

"I died in the past," said Shepard, her tone matter-of-fact. "That makes this the future."

Jacob chuckled. “That makes about as much sense as anything else. Why not?”

"First off, these guns. What was wrong with the cooling system before?" Shepard took another two shots at a mass of unfolding brass and ceramic, and ejected the spent coolant canister to punctuate her question.

"Nothing was wrong with it," said Jacob. "But you know how technology is. The other side gets better armor, and you need a better gun to counter it."

"Running as fast as you can to stay in the same place," Shepard agreed. She slotted in a new canister and moved on to a new vantage point. "What does that have to do with this thing?"

"You’ve only been shooting at automatons," Miranda pointed out. "You’d notice the difference against live armor."

Gunfire echoed across the plaza - Tali’s squad had broken through the perimeter and started their distraction.

The three humans hightailed it down the street towards their target: a factory warehouse next to the city center plaza. Its windows were dark, like all the other buildings on the approach to the security station.

"It’s basically because of the geth," Jacob said, while they caught their breath and checked their weapons. "Do you remember how difficult it was to take them down with gunfire before?"

Shepard winced at the memory. “The damned things keep putting themselves back together while you’re shooting them.”

Jacob nodded. “Exactly. While you were napping, we figured out that if you use enough force, you can scatter the pieces far enough that they can’t put themselves back together.”

"That ended up being too much for standard cooling systems to handle," Miranda added. "Not unless you wanted to carry a fifty kilo coolant processor on your back every time you carried a weapon."

"As a result, we’ve got disposable coolant." Jacob leaned around the corner to check on the fighting in the plaza. "I think it’s an acceptable trade-off."

"We might as well have gone back to using actual bullets," growled Shepard. "And another thing, if countering the geth is such a priority, why do you have such a focus on automaton security? You’d think geth would go right for them."

"Which is how you know what direction they’ll strike from," said Miranda.

Shepard just tilted her head at the sound of gunfire from the plaza.

"It’s a working theory," Miranda continued, lamely. "Still in field tests."

An explosion pulled Shepard’s attention back to the quarian team. She ran through the alley into the plaza, to see the marines trading fire with another one of the massive armored automatons that Shepard had seen back at the Lazarus labs.

"I didn’t know that these colonies had access to a Baylis platform," Jacob said, running up beside Shepard.

"It doesn’t matter how," Shepard said, raising her pistol and firing a few shots at its back. "We need to help them take it down."

Jacob nodded and closed his eyes. A blue-green aura flared around him, and he hurled an iridescent bolt of energy at the automaton’s back. The armor plating must have been at just the wrong angle, however, because the bolt ricocheted off the Baylis and exploded against a brick wall.

The woman leading the quarian marines - the one in the red suit, Shepard recognized - raised her hand and shouted at them. “We can handle this machine! Go to Security now, while we have its attention!”

Shepard nodded, and raced for the doorway at the opposite end of the plaza.

 

* * *

 

Tali reloaded her shotgun and waited for a break in the gunfire. The heavy weapons platform had her squad pinned down, but as long as they kept it distracted, Shepard and her team could make it into what she hoped was Veetor’s hiding spot.

She was still trying to wrap her head around that, actually. How was Shepard alive? And furthermore,  _why_  would she be working with Cerberus? Even if she was calling the shots, like she said.

It didn’t matter, in any case. That quick conversation was enough to convince her that it  _was_ Shepard, and not simply a well-made duplicate. A fake Shepard wouldn’t have known little details about Tali’s life on the  _Normandy_. A fake Shepard wouldn’t have that subconscious little hair toss when talking, or cross her arms in precisely the same way.

A fake Shepard in the hands of Cerberus wouldn’t have let Tali take the lead in mission planning, that was for damned sure.

"Tali! Move!"

Without thinking, Tali leapt out of cover and ran for the parked truck at the plaza’s corner. Barely a second after leaving, the topiary she was hiding behind exploded, the grenade-propelling arm of the Baylis extended in its direction.

She nodded to Ruva, who had shouted the warning.

Ruva nodded back and charged the platform. She ducked under automaton’s arm as it swung to intercept her, and snaked out a hand and gripped the extended barrel of its rotary cannon. Her momentum carried her on an arc, and the woman hooked her feet over the shoulder plating and swung herself out onto its back.

Had quarian encounter suits not been made of a tough leather, that move would have seared through Ruva’s skin, from the extreme heat buildup on the recently-fired cannon. As it was, Tali could see the streaks of red where the partially-melted leather clung to the barrel.

With a swift motion, Ruva had righted herself and started pulling at the ceramic armor plating at the automaton’s neck.

"What the hell is Reegar doing?" Prazza shouted over the din. "I can’t take a shot at the thing with her climbing all over it!"

Tali tapped at her multitool and sent a pair of electrically-charged taser darts at the mech. “Shoot the legs!”

The combined fire from the ground forces kept the Baylis sufficiently distracted, and with a triumphant shout, Ruvadh’Reegar ripped away a ceramic plate, exposing the inner workings. She primed a grenade, crammed it into the central gears, and leapt away, hitting the ground in a rolling crouch.

The automaton’s head whirled around almost comically, flailing its arms to try to reach the exposed section. The quarians took this moment to duck into cover.

The explosion that followed shattered the windows of every building in the plaza, the shockwave even knocking parked carriages onto their sides.

Tali waited a moment for the ringing in her ears to fade enough for her to function properly. She signaled Ruva, who looked  _far_  too pleased with herself, and motioned for her and the rest of the marines to hold a perimeter.

As she went through the doors to the central security building, the cylindrical head of the Baylis platform finally struck the ground.

 

* * *

 

Shepard slowed her pace as she approached the security station inside the colony’s town hall. They hadn’t seen any other automatons since they entered the building - the heavy weapons platform in the plaza seemed to be the final line of defense - but a frightened, cornered quarian could be capable of anything.

She signaled to Jacob and Miranda to hang back, lowered her weapon, and opened the door.

A wall of stench struck her as she entered the room. It was strong enough to almost have a physical presence, too; Shepard had remembered the uniquely horrifying odors of soldiers in special forces training, and this one matched it easily. It was an almost exotic mélange of burning dust from the tops of video screens, stale coffee, and quarian sweat. It hinted at desperation, disarray, and a distinct lack of a proper shower.

The state of the room followed through when Shepard’s eyes adjusted to the light - or rather, the lack of it. The curtains were drawn shut, there was no light from electric or gas lamps; the only illumination came from the rows of video screens at the far wall. The flickering white lights cast elongated shadows on the walls, projected from the debris strewn about the room - and from the hunched figure, rail-thin, cowering in front of the monitors.

Shepard moved forward, kicking aside food wrappers and empty coffee cups with every step. “Veetor?” she asked, as softly and unthreateningly as she could.

The quarian didn’t turn around, didn’t give any indication that he had heard her. He was muttering to himself, flipping the monitors to various pictures. Shepard recognized the plaza in front of the building, a schoolyard, rows of houses. These were the feeds from the security cameras, then, but why had he sent the automatons to attack them?

"Veetor?" she asked again, stopping right behind him. Miranda and Jacob came up behind her, their weapons raised, but Shepard waved them down. "My name is Shepard. Can you hear me?"

"No Veetor," the quarian said, in his wild mantra. "No Veetor. Can’t be taken if I’m not here. Monsters everywhere. Have to hide. Monsters won’t find me."

Jacob shook his head at Shepard. “I don’t think he can hear you, Commander.”

Shepard reached over Veetor’s shoulder and hit the feed button on the console. One by one, the monitors lost their signal and dissolved into static.

Veetor shrieked. “No! Nonono, can’t lose the signal! They’ll find me!” He let out a wracking sob and slumped against the console.

Shepard reached forward and grabbed the quarian’s shoulder. “Veetor, listen to me,” she said, pulling him around to face her. “We’re here to rescue you.”

Bloodshot eyes widened, and Veetor’s eyebrows disappeared under his hood. “Humans? How? How did you escape the monsters?”

"We didn’t," said Jacob. "We came later. The monsters are all gone now."

"Veetor, this is important," said Shepard. She kept her voice gentle, hoping to keep him focused on her words and not on whatever had spooked him earlier. "What happened to the people here?"

Three-fingered hands clenched and unclenched nervously. “I- I can show you.” He turned back to the console and reconnected the camera feed.

The monitors each showed a portion of a greater picture, giving the 3x3 grid the appearance of a shattered window in time.

"The miasma came," Veetor said, narrating as he rewound the video. He froze the image at one moment, and Shepard could see a billowing cloud, low and roiling, clinging to the ground. It was too dark to be any normal type of fog. "Trapping the humans. Putting them to sleep." He advanced the video, until Shepard could see bulky, almost insectoid figures trudging through the miasma.

"Monsters," Veetor supplied, helpfully. "They took the humans away."

"My gods," said Miranda. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. "I think those are Collectors."

Shepard stayed silent. She’d heard the stories, same as anyone; the Collectors came to take you away. They were a children’s fable, a warning to mind your parents and stay close to home, and to never trust strangers.

Miranda’s recognition of the fable wasn’t what set Shepard’s brain into overload, however. She was staring at the fog. Low, creeping, choking…

_cold. dark. can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t breathe **can’t see**_

( _I wasn’t the one who cast you off your dying ship. I didn’t fill your lungs with toxins and smash you against the rocks. But I did pull your body out of that miasma—_ )

"They attacked the  _Normandy_ ,” said Shepard, interrupting Jacob, who had taken Shepard’s silent introspection for confusion and was in the process of explaining who the Collectors were.

"What?" he said. "Are you sure?"

Shepard nodded, not taking her eyes off the screen. “I’ve already bet my life on it.” She turned to her companions. “We have what we came for. Grab what you can. Take some soil samples if you have to, we need evidence of that miasma.”

Miranda nodded, tapping at her multitool. “We’d better take the quarian back with us. He might have more information.”

The doors burst open and Tali stormed inside. “What? No! You are not taking him. He is hurt and needs medical attention.”

"Cerberus doctors are perfectly knowledgeable about quarian physiology—" Miranda began. She was interrupted when Tali marched up and drove a finger into her breastbone.

"I won’t have your hacksaws torturing him!" she shouted. "We are taking him back to the Flotilla."

Shepard waved her hands. “Of course he’s going with you,” she said. “We can get everything we need from the security tapes.”

Miranda opened her mouth to protest, but Shepard raised a finger to forestall any comment.

"Am I clear?"

"Yes, Commander," said Miranda.

 

* * *

 

"Shepard, good work on Freedom’s Progress," said Harper. 

It was early evening by the time Shepard, Miranda, and Jacob made it back to the Cerberus base. The curtains on Jack Harper’s office window were open, and he was currently silhouetted by the setting sun. The omnipresent cigarette was also there, held loosely in his hand as he stared out the window, his back to those assembled in his office.

"The quarians agreed to forward us any pertinent information from Veetor’s debriefing," he continued. He took a drag from the cigarette. "No new data yet, but a surprising olive branch - especially concerning our history."

Shepard hadn’t moved from the doorway, leaning against the threshold with her arms crossed. “You ever think about playing nice, once in a while?”

Harper didn’t turn around. “Diplomacy is great when it works, but difficult when everyone already sees you as a threat. You and I have different methods, but I can’t argue with your results.” Puff. “More importantly, you confirmed the Collectors  _are_  behind the abductions.”

Shepard narrowed her eyes. She felt uneasy about the entire situation as it was, but Harper’s words were throwing up red flags left and right. “Why do I get the feeling you knew about them already?”

"I had my suspicions, but I needed proof." Puff. "The Collectors are…  _enigmatic_ , at best. They periodically travel to lone colonies in the Lower Terminus, looking to gather seemingly unimportant items or specimens. Sometimes they trade for what they want, and other times…” Puff. “Other times, they just take it.”

"That’s where the stories come from," said Jacob, to Shepard’s right. "Most cultures have fables about fairies, or goblins, whatever, who come in the dead of night and take children away. It’s a far cry from what’s really true, but it all comes from the Collectors."

"Very few people have ever seen one in person," Miranda added.

Shepard gave a very brief nod, more to acknowledge that she’d heard them than to show she agreed. “Any idea why they started focusing on humans?”

At that, Harper finally turned around to face Shepard. “If they’re agents for the Reapers, there could be any number of reasons. Obviously, humanity played a huge role in Nazara’s death; that might have been enough to draw their attention.”

He paused took another long drag on the cigarette. Shepard glared at him, resisting the urge to snatch it away and shove it into an orifice - she didn’t particularly care which one.

"What really concerns me," he said, lazily waving his cigarette as he talked, "is why they’ve bothered  _abducting_  the colonists. Once the miasma paralyzed them, why not just kill them?”

Shepard shook her head. “You’re holding something back,” she accused. “How do you know the Reapers are involved?”

Harper waved his hand at the paperwork strewn across his desk. “The patterns are there, if you look. The Council and the Kingdoms want to believe the Reaper threat died with Nazara.” He thrust his cigarette-holding hand forward to punctuate his statement. “You and I know better. I won’t wait until the Reapers are on the march. We need to take the fight to them.”

Shepard gave a derisive chuckle. “That’s where we’re going to have a problem, Harper.”

It was Harper’s turn to narrow his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

"See, you’re right about one thing. I do remember what’s at stake here." She pushed off from the wall and started stalking slowly around the room. "I also remember a bunch of research bases, with prisoners. And rachni. And Husks."

She stopped in front of Harper’s desk, keeping a leather-topped wooden barrier between the two of them. “And thresher maws. And Admiral Kahoku.”

Harper took another drag on his cigarette, but kept silent.

"You’re a crook, Harper. And a thief. And a murderer. There’s absolutely no way that I’m going to work with you."

"You’ve seen the evidence yourself, Shepard," Harper growled. "The Collectors are a threat to all of humanity. The Reapers aren’t far behind them."

"And you’re right about that," Shepard agreed. "And while I trust you about as far as Veetor’Nara could throw you, I also believe you want to stop the Reapers."

She placed her hands on either side of Harper’s desk and leaned forward predatorially. “Which is why you’re going to give me everything you have on them.

"Shepard," Miranda cautioned, before Harper waved her down.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you can’t do back-alley deals in the name of furthering humanity if there is no humanity to deal with," answered Shepard. "You’re a criminal, but the Reapers won’t care about blackmail.

"You resurrected me to stop them. That’s what I’m going to do. But I’m going to do it on  _my_  terms, and I’m going to do it with or without your help.”

"And if I do help you?" asked Harper. "What incentive do I have, if you’re going to do what I wanted you to do anyway?"

Shepard glanced around conspiratorially. “I don’t tell the Alliance where this base is, and they don’t come down on you like the fist of the gods.”

Harper stared at her. “I could tell you that you’re legally dead to both the Citadel and the Kingdoms Alliance. You have no rights, no home to return to. I could even point out that all the technology that brought you back to life is patented in my name, which means that in every legal definition, you are my  _property_. But I wouldn’t think you’d care much about that.”

"You’d be right."

"I could stop you from walking out that door, right now."

Shepard bared her teeth in what could, in only the loosest terms, be called a smile. “ _You could try_.”

The room was silent for nearly a full minute. No one dared to move.

"Your terms," Harper said eventually, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his foot, "are acceptable."

Shepard released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She straightened her stance and nodded at him. “You’re damned right, they are.”

"Miranda will provide all the necessary files that I have arranged, and show you to an airship I have prepared for you." He walked up to the desk and sat down. "I was hoping to give it to you under better circumstances, but we can’t always have what we want, can we?"

"Thank you," Shepard said. "I promise to put in a good word for you with the Alliance. They might mark this against your criminal record."

"You’ll forgive me if I don’t take that as a comfort," said Harper. "Miranda, before you show Shepard to her airship, I wanted to thank you for your work on the Lazarus Project. You completed it to the absolute letter of my demands."

"Thank you, sir," said Miranda. Her face was ashen; clearly the standoff took her by surprise.

"Unfortunately, your services are no longer required. Your final paycheck will be deposited to your bank account."

"Of course, sir—" Miranda started to say, then froze. "I’m… sorry, what was that?"

"You’re dismissed, Miss Lawson." Harper turned towards Jacob, who likewise hadn’t moved. "Jacob, similarly—"

"Hired gun, no longer needed," Jacob said, shaking his head. "I got it. It was a better gig than most."

"Thank you for understanding," said Harper.

Miranda was blinking rapidly. “Sir, I think there’s been some mistake—”

"No mistake," said Harper. "Show Shepard out, and you’re free to go. That’s final."

"Come on, Miranda," Jacob said, gently taking her elbow and leading her out the door. "Let’s grab some dinner on the way out."

Shepard gave Harper one last long look, then turned around and followed.

 

* * *

 

Jack Harper lit himself another cigarette as he found himself alone in his office, and pondered the state of the universe.

Shepard had reacted exactly how he had anticipated, and was likely even now making plans to tackle the Collector threat. Moreover, having successfully removed the more obvious hurdle in her path, she would lower her guard and consider Cerberus “dealt with”, for the time being at least.

It was amazing how he didn’t even have to set up the hoops before people would start jumping through them, these days.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Harper. "Are they on their way?"

"Lawson has taken Shepard and Taylor to the drydock," the operative said as he entered the office.

"Excellent. Let them leave without incident, then begin disassembling this facility. It’s served its purpose."

"Yes, sir."

Harper took a deep breath and let the smoke waft for a bit in his lungs. “Contact beta site and tell them that Lazarus was a complete success.”

"Of course, sir."

"And tell them…"

The operative paused on his way out the door. “Sir?”

Harper smiled.

"Tell them to begin Phase Two at once."


	3. Family Reunion

The lights came on in the underground cavern, illuminating the enormous drydock facility buried deep beneath the Cerberus office building. Support struts were bolted to the rock wherever they could find purchase, with ropes and pulleys supporting drawbridges and mechanical service arms. At the far end of the cavern was an enormous steel door, presumably so that the airship, once built, could be transported outside.

Shepard halted mid-step as the light hit the ship that was, even now, just having the finishing touches put on. A sleek wooden hull reinforced with metal plating, with enough portholes and broadside cannon emplacements to suggest four, maybe even five internal decks. The topside deck was split, with what appeared to be a command structure towards the aft of the ship.

The ship itself was of a nonstandard design; almost needle-like in its profile if it hadn’t been so large. Slung low on the superstructure were four oversized Aetherdrive engine nacelles, two on either side, and clearly more than enough power to generate the required Lutece field to keep the ship afloat. On any other ship, such a boastful display of engine power would look ridiculous, but on this frigate, it belied more of a quiet promise.

This ship did not lumber through the sky, like its similarly-sized cousins in most military fleets. No, even moored in the drydock cavern, this ship looked like it would leap into action at any moment. This ship would be  _fast_.

Crewmen were crawling along the outside, paint buckets in hand, working on the final touches of its black and gold trim. And though the color scheme was different, even though it was far too large, Shepard recognized the ship.

 _Her_  ship.

"You rebuilt her," she said, almost in a whisper. "You actually rebuilt the  _Normandy_.”

"Sort of," said Jacob, coming up behind her. "Harper had the original blueprints altered, and he’s been working on this for the past year and a half. She’s not exactly the ship you knew, but she’s got it where it counts." He whistled appreciatively as he let his gaze slide along the ship’s length. "I haven’t actually seen her in person - either  _Normandy_ , actually, when you think about it - but I have to say, she’s everything that Miranda made her out to be.”

Shepard blinked, and turned around to face her companions. “Miranda, you had a hand in this?”

"Of course," said Miranda, as if surprised that Shepard would think otherwise. "Part of the Lazarus project was to get you combat-ready. A ship and crew were part of those plans."

Shepard frowned. “A crew? You mean a bunch of Cerberus people?”

"A crew of hand-picked servicemen and women from across the Kingdoms," Miranda clarified. "The positions we’ve managed to fill so far are all from people who wanted to work for  _you_.”

"That you’ve ‘managed to fill’?"

"We had to wake you up early, remember?" Miranda waved her hand at the ship. "In any case, all we have are a few nonessential crewmen. Helmsman, navigator, medic, gunnery chief: all these positions are still vacant."

"They’re still Cerberus crew," Shepard pointed out. "For all I know, they have orders from Harper to stab me in the back once I’m no longer useful."

“ _If_  that was the plan, it’s not anymore,” said Jacob. “You kind of ruined it with the whole ‘walking out on the Illusive Man’ routine you pulled up there - which, let me tell you, was completely worth seeing.” He gave a contented sigh. “I can die happy now.”

"I’m pleased you’re in such a good mood about it," said Miranda, "but unlike some of you, I have nowhere to go."

Shepard shook her head. “Come with me, then.”

"What? Why?"

"At least as far to the Citadel." Shepard tested the drawbridge that connected the chamber’s waiting platform with the ship, and started crossing it. "You’re a good person to have in a fight, and I could use you, but the very least I can do is give you transport if you want to part ways."

Miranda narrowed her eyes, but followed Shepard and Jacob onto the ship. “I’m flattered you think so, but what have I done to give you any indication you can trust me?”

"I can’t trust you, Miranda," Shepard said, not bothering to turn around as she stepped foot onto the deck of the ship -  _her_  ship, she corrected herself. “But you’ve had my back for the entire day, and what Harper did to you was absolute bullshit. Nobody deserves that.”

She turned around to face the former Cerberus operatives. “Same for you, Jacob. You’ve got a place here if you want it.”

"Commander Shepard needs  _my_  help?” he asked. “It would be an absolute honor.”

"Great." Shepard spun around slowly, taking in the scenery of the ship’s upper deck. "So our first step would be to fill those essential positions, right?"

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Naturally. Why?”

Shepard grinned. “We’ve got one stop to make before we go to the Citadel.”

 

* * *

**Chapter 3:  
Family Reunion**

* * *

 

The steel doors ground to a halt, fully recessed into their threshold, and the setting sun played across the airship’s hull. The engines spun up into a surprisingly silent  _shooooooom_  and - with a shudder as the moorings pulled away - gently eased the ship out into the open skies. _  
_

Shepard stayed topside and watched the continental landmass recede into the distance. She already felt ten times better than she had even an hour ago, with thoughts of Cerberus and its machinations similarly falling by the wayside. More importantly, she was standing on a ship and sailing into the wind. Even though the ship was unfamiliar, even though she knew absolutely none of the crew, she was at ease. She was free. She was _home_.

Now all she needed to do was to bring a little bit more home where she was.

She walked into the command structure and approached her new shipmate, who was poring over the navigational charts. “So what do you think, Miranda? Danger, intrigue, possibly horrific and painful death?”

Miranda reached up and pulled her hair out of her face as she flipped through the charts. “When you put it that way, how can I possibly say no? Besides, I’ve trained for years for this job. Might as well do it anyway, now that I don’t have anywhere else to live.”

"That’s the positive spirit I was looking for," said Shepard. Then she frowned as what Miranda said suddenly hit her. "When you say ‘trained’…"

"Not only was I to oversee your reconstruction, but I was given a crash course in the basics of operational planning and personnel for such a mission." Miranda reached back behind her and pulled out a red binder. "Harper had me go over a list of potential crew candidates for your mission against the Reapers, and knowing you as he did, he didn’t restrict it to humans only." At Shepard’s look, she added, "Say what you want about the man, but he’s thorough. It doesn’t matter what you think of him, but at least take a look at the dossiers. They were handpicked not because of their feelings towards Cerberus, but for their ability to help you."

Shepard could feel her cheer draining away. It was just another reminder that her life would never be the same again, not the way it was before. As much as Harper went against everything she stood for, and despite setting fire to the bridge he was trying to build, he was right about one thing.

He owned two years of her life that she would never get back, two years in which the world had moved on without her. She owed her life to him, and that fact would always remain, no matter what else she did with it.

"Alright, fine," Shepard said. "But not right now. I need to get as far away from the whole Cerberus thing before I dive back in."

"I gathered that when you told me where we were going," Miranda said.

"Course is set, then?" asked Shepard. She turned around to the helm, which to her great surprised, was unmanned. "Uh, Miranda? Who’s flying the ship?"

“ _That would be me, Captain_ ,” said a disembodied voice. Shepard raised her eyebrows as she saw where it was coming from.

A grey box, very similar to the one she had noticed on the control panels of the Cerberus shuttle, was bolted to the wall nearest the tiller. It was unmarred by any markings on all sides. The top of the box had a circular opening with an irised hatch; as she watched, the iris pulled open and an…  _object_ … emerged.

It was spherical and split along a vertical diameter. The right-most hemisphere had a glass lens, right along the hemispherical divide, and it appeared to be able to swivel along its vertical axis. The left hemisphere had a speaker in a similar position, but that side did not swivel. The sphere was mounted on a stand that could spin horizontally, allowing the lens to focus on practically anything in the room. It did so, now, on Shepard.

"What am I looking at?" Shepard asked.

“ _This ship is equipped with an Enhanced Diegetic Interface, intended for limited autonomous functions in emergency situations._ " The voice coming out of the speaker was smooth, female, and had the telltale inflections of an artificially-created personality. " _The crew refers to me as ‘EDI’._ ”

Shepard crossed her arms. “Why am I not surprised that Cerberus is messing around with Artificial Intelligence?”

“ _I would presume that it is because you are good at your job_ ,” said EDI. “ _If this is not the case, please let me know so that I may proceed to reinterpret your orders as I see fit._ ”

Shepard blinked.

"Yeah, she does that," said Jacob, entering the cabin. "Play nice, EDI. You can mess with the Commander’s head later."

“ _Very well, Mister Taylor_.” The sphere rotated to focus on Jacob. “ _Has the Commander been briefed, or will I be giving her the tour?_ ”

"Let’s start with you," Shepard said, forestalling any other question. "What exactly is your function on the ship?"

The sphere swiveled back around to focus on Shepard. “ _The Enhanced Diegetic Interface system is designed to automate shipboard functions. I have functionality to assist the ship’s captain, assigned boatswain, quartermaster, and duty officers in a variety of tasks. I am capable of processing multiple tasks simultaneously, as well as relaying information across the ship on a priority basis._ ”

Shepard nodded. “You’re my yeoman.”

“ _Although this is not an entirely accurate summation, e_ _ssentially, yes._ " EDI rotated on her base to focus her lens on Miranda. " _Director Lawson was to be assigned as boatswain of this vessel. I gather from your previous conversation that this is no longer to be the case?_ ”

Shepard glanced at Miranda. “We’re still working that out. Will it be a problem, working for me instead of Cerberus?”

“ _I was created to assist in the end goal of defeating the Reapers,_ " EDI said, " _not specifically to be in the service of Cerberus. While my autonomy is restricted in these goals, the result is the same._ ”

"EDI’s primary function is to assist  _you_ , Shepard,” Miranda clarified. “Anything else is secondary.”

“ _As I said._ ”

Shepard nodded. “Alright, continue. What are your other functions?”

“ _I have limited control over many of the ship’s systems. This control is restricted by a hardware block in my encephalic network cluster, but in essence, I can provide minor navigation and weapons support. In an emergency, I can take over these stations, but at a heavily reduced proficiency to an actual organic operator._ ”

"So you’re the one flying the ship right now?" Shepard asked.

“ _Yes. I do recommend acquiring a proper helmsman as early as possible._ ”

Shepard grinned. “That’s why we’re going to Tiptree.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t just that Shepard’s shiny new airship was larger than the late  _Normandy_ , she quickly found out - it was just large enough to cause problems landing in areas that were not equipped with proper docking facilities. It was fully capable of landing on a large enough surface or a flat stretch of field, but Tiptree was an agricultural colony on a fairly small continent, and thus most of the fields were off-limits to frigates with oversized engine cores.

Thankfully, there was plenty of space outside of the colony’s borders, and Shepard was able to take a shuttle into the central town. Her arrival did not go unnoticed, however, and she was met at the shuttle dock by a bewildered and incredulous Geoffrey Moreau.

"It’s been absolute hell," he was saying, as they caught up on their way to his family’s farmhouse. "After the six-month inquiry they held with all the survivors? Mandatory counseling sessions, followed by reassignment to Central Command."

He hobbled along the path, far more spritely than Shepard remembered from before. It matched her earlier bewilderment - when Geoffrey had finished his minute-long recitation of what seemed like every race’s curse words, he had clasped Shepard’s hand and held onto it far tighter than he had previously felt comfortable doing.

"That doesn’t sound like something you’d go for," she said, following him down a dirt path to a modest but well-constructed farm.

"You bet your posthumously decorated ass I didn’t go for it." Geoffrey flailed his arms in the air angrily. "Piloting a desk for the rest of my life? Hell  _yeah_  I retired. At least here I can get up in the air regularly, even if it  _is_  cropdusting, and my pension keeps me in all-new experimental medications.” He gave a dark chuckle at that. “Heh, ‘pension’. While my dad’s still slaving away under mounds of corn. Who would have figured?”

"Medications, huh?" Shepard raised an eyebrow as Geoffrey turned to face her. "I was wondering how you practically tackled me without breaking anything."

"Ah, the marvels of modern scientific dicking around," Geoffrey said, with a contented sigh. "Get this, it comes from aethertech."

Shepard blinked. “Wait, what?”

"I know! That’s what  _I_  said!” Geoffrey reached out a steady hand and unlocked the gate. “Turns out that there’s a whole market for magical glowing bullshit that doesn’t involve defying the laws of gravity. I don’t pretend to understand it nearly as much as I enjoy not shattering my pelvis every time I take a dump.”

Shepard snorted. “You understand it just fine when you’re outrunning eldritch tentacles of doom.”

"Hey, I don’t have to understand the magical glowing bullshit when it puts wind in my sails," Geoffrey protested. "I just have to know how to use it properly."

"Fair enough," said Shepard, as they entered the Moreau farmhouse. "Is your family home?"

"Nah," said Geoffrey. "Dad took Hilary out for the day. She graduated high school, so they’re celebrating." He narrowed his eyes as he sat down at the kitchen table. "Why?"

"I have a proposition for you," Shepard said, pulling a binder out of her pack.

"Oh no, no no, I’m done with that. One Reaper is enough for me."

Shepard gave him a Look. “You’re the best, Geoffrey. And I need the very best.”

"For a death mission? Given to you by your new Cerberus buddies?" He waved away Shepard’s protests. "Yeah, I knew they were doing something with you. Didn’t know they were stitching together a zombie, but they came sniffing around. I told them they could take their abominable projects and toss ‘em into the Maelstrom."

"I’m not working with them," Shepard said. "But this time, they’re not wrong. The Collectors are doing something with the Reapers, and whatever it is, we have to be ready."

"Oh yeah, it’ll be just like old times," said Geoffrey. "Danger, destiny. Plus if you act now, death!"

Shepard opened the binder to the schematics of the airship, and laid it out on the table. “And then there’s this.”

Geoffrey was silent for almost a minute. “So are we leaving  _now_ , or…?”

Shepard grinned. It hadn’t even been a contest. “As soon as you get your stuff together.”

Geoffrey nodded. “She’s going to need a name.”

 

* * *

 

Geoffrey let out a low whistle as the shuttle pulled alongside the airship. What few crewmen had taken the ride from the Cerberus base were suspended over the side, stenciling out familiar block letters on either side of the hull. Shepard couldn’t blame him; the sight nearly brought a tear to her own eye as well.

_NORMANDY SR-2_

Miranda was waiting for them on the topside deck.

"Would you look at the curves on her?" said Geoffrey, clutching the handrails as he stepped off the shuttle. "Everything’s so  _sleek_  and  _shiny_. I never thought anything could be built to such perfection, but I think I’m in  _love_.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “I thought that when you insisted on Mr. Moreau as a helmsman, you said he was respectable.”

Shepard waved a hand dismissively as Miranda leveled a glare at her. “He’s talking about the ship, Miranda. And let’s be clear, the words I used were ‘I have a lot of respect for him’. Never once said he was respectable.”

"Yeah, ‘cause that would go way past ‘stretching the truth’ and right into outright fibbing," Geoffrey added. "Hey Shepard, do you believe what they say about ‘More than a handful is wasted’? Because I think I’d like to test that."

"Still talking about the ship," Shepard clarified.

"Can’t you keep control of him?" asked Miranda, matching their stride as they moved towards the command structure.

"Nope! Sorry. It’s the price you pay for the best damned helmsman in the fleet."

"We pilots are always a little quirky," Geoffrey agreed.

"I think the stress cracks their brains," said Shepard. First it was catching up with Tali, and now she was bantering back and forth with Geoffrey. Not only was she starting to feel like herself again, she was actually enjoying herself. Tag-team teasing of Miranda was just a bonus. "Of course, the jury is still out as to whether Flight Lieutenant Moreau ever had one of those to begin with, but we all work with what we’re given."

"I’m sorry, Commander, what was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your shambling corpse."

Miranda stifled a groan. “There goes any shred of sanity I had left.”

"Perfect," Geoffrey said, hobbling up to the tiller. "You’ll fit right in with the rest of this crazy holy shit Commander who did you have to kill to get a setup like this?"

"An ancient destroyer god from before historical civilization," Shepard deadpanned. "You should know, you were there."

"Right, right," said Geoffrey, easing himself into the comfortable-looking chair at the helm. "Oooh, that’s the stuff. Hey, so is that the going rate for something like that? Save the world from an unspeakable horror, get soft leather seats? Because if so, I think they undercharged, you should feel this."

“ _The original Normandy was a military vessel, Lieutenant Moreau_.” EDI’s box irised open and her interface raised and locked to its ready position. “ _The SR-2 was designed with more civilian comforts_.”

Geoffrey spun the chair around - Shepard hadn’t even realized it could swivel - and stared at the bisected sphere. His mouth hung open for almost a full minute, before he turned to Shepard.

"What the shit."

"Oh, didn’t I mention?" Shepard couldn’t keep the grin off her face, no matter how hard she tried (she chalked that one in the "reduced muscle memory" column along with her firearm skills). "This is EDI. She’ll be sharing the ship with you."

"What the  _shit_.” _  
_

"I’d love to stay and chat, but there’s final checklists to go over, and I need to see how the crew I stole from Cerberus is holding up." Shepard signaled Miranda to follow her and headed at a casual yet brisk walk to the entryway for the lower decks. "Plot us a course to the Citadel, and don’t kill each other!"

Geoffrey’s final exclamation of “What the shit!” followed her belowdecks.

 

* * *

 

There were many differences between this  _Normandy_  and the one that Shepard was most familiar with, it turned out, aside from just the sheer size. With four interior decks plus a cargo bay, its comparable maneuverability, and full shuttle deployment capabilities, the SR-2 had increased in classification from light to heavy frigate. It didn’t have the crew complement of a galleon, and it was far too small to be called a carrier.

This information was in the binder that Shepard had been provided by Cerberus, but she was currently being regaled with a point-by-point breakdown by one of the two engineering chiefs.

"—given the nature of the quantum instability of Lutece drive cores, the Illusive Man insisted that we shunt the extra power into secondary systems. It’s cross-wired like anythin’ but she’ll run with half the systems out."

The red-haired man who stood before her paused to take a breath. “Of course, I took a bit o’ liberty when perusing the original  _Normandy_ 's schematics and copied over her RADAR stealth systems. You'd still need to be blind to not look out of a window and not see her comin', but she's fast enough to not care about silly things like that.”

Shepard resisted the urge to fall asleep. This  _had_  to be Miranda’s revenge for not warning her about Geoffrey.

Thankfully, Engineer Donnelly was interrupted by his partner. “Kenneth, you’re boring the Commander. She doesn’t need the sales pitch.”

"I’m just extollin’ the virtues of the lovely lady to the lovely lady. No need to get your knickers in a twist, Gabby."

Engineer Gabriella Daniels rolled her eyes. “What Kenneth means to say is that we’re bigger, badder, and all-around better than the SR-1.”

Donnelly shot her a look of hurt and betrayal. “I was just gettin’ to that.”

"Hold it," said Shepard, holding up her hands. "All I asked was to tell me what was different. I know about the schematics already - I read the manual, after all - so I need you to tell me how she handles. How does she feel?"

"Like a nest of vipers wrapped up in sheepskin," said Donnelly. "Soft and dangerous all at once."

"That’s certainly an…  _evocative_  metaphor,” admitted Shepard.

"It’s true," said Daniels. "The  _Normandy_ 's got state-of-the-art engines and weaponry that will make a turian weep for joy.”

"Twelve broadside cannons, four aethertech point-defense turrets, and  _nae fuckin’ tolerance_.” Donnelly was almost in tears himself.

Shepard flipped open her binder and laid out the cross-section diagrams. “What about this? Magnetic rail cannon along the spine of the ship?”

Both engineers winced. Daniels even sucked in a breath through her teeth.

"Yeah, about that," Daniels said. "Cerberus never got that to work. The infrastructure is there, but right now it’s just wasted space."

Shepard nodded. “Anything else I need to know?”

"Actually, if you find yourself in a chop shop at some point, take a look at a set of power couplings for the drive core?"

Daniels groaned. “Kenneth, the Commander doesn’t want to go hunting around flea markets for you.”

"No, it’s fine," said Shepard. "If there’s a problem, I should know what it is. What’s wrong with the power couplings on the ship right now?"

Donnelly raised his hands. “Well, nothing, actually. But the new kind that are coming out of the factories right now aren’t nearly as efficient as the old model.”

"They went with a cheaper metal alloy that handles the power transfer just fine," Daniels added. "But it burns out twice as fast, so you have to keep replacing parts."

"It’s more of a maintenance issue than anything else," Donnelly agreed. "The less time we spend halfway buried in the machinery with our arses hangin’ out for the world to see is more time we can be working on other things that actually need our attention."

Shepard blinked. “Tell you what. Get me the specs of what you need on paper and I’ll take it with me the next time I’m in a shipyard.”

Donnelly’s eyes lit up like she’d just declared double-pudding Tuesdays. “Aye, sir. You won’t regret it.” He snapped off the crispest salute Shepard had seen since the Academy.

"At ease, crewman," Shepard said, keeping a chuckle from her voice. "Just let me know when we’re able to get underway."

As she turned and left the engine room, she could still hear them bickering.

“ _Commander Shepard’s a lot less scary than I thought_.”

“ _I told you she’d come down to see us, Kenneth_.”

 

* * *

 

On her way to the stairwell, Shepard passed another one of the grey boxes, this one bolted directly to the bulkhead of the corridor. She stopped beside it and tapped twice.

The top irised open and an EDI interface rose to greet her. “ _Yes, Commander?_ ”

"How many of these things do you have?" Shepard asked.

“ _This is not the most accurate question,_ " said EDI, her tone reproachful. " _The Enhanced Diegetic Interface nomenclature refers both to these terminals, of which there are fifteen, stationed at both convenient and mission-critical locations throughout the_ Normandy _, as well as the controlling Automated Intelligence - my ‘self’, as it were - of which there is only one._ ”

"Are you controlling all of them simultaneously?" Shepard asked.

“ _When necessary. However, doing so taxes my control algorithms, and is strongly discouraged._ " EDI’s interface swiveled around in almost a mechanized shrug. " _Most commonly, I monitor these terminals and redirect my attention as necessary._ ” _  
_

"So where are ‘you’ located?"

EDI hesitated. “ _Once again, this is not an accurate question. My ‘self’ is networked throughout the ship. This interface is as much ‘me’ as the one you used at the helm, which is now being fed some particularly vile epithets by Lieutenant Moreau._ ”

Shepard sighed. “What I mean is, where are you controlling these terminals from? Your awareness can’t be so decentralized.”

“ _My processes function from my encephalic network cluster behind the infirmary. This cluster is as close to your definition of ‘where I am’ as you can reasonably be._ ” _  
_

"So if you go crazy and start killing the crew, that’s where I know to look," said Shepard, nodding her head in satisfaction.

EDI didn’t respond.

"You’d be thinking it too if you were in my position." Shepard crossed her arms. "Anything made by Cerberus is suspect."

“ _Even you?_ " EDI asked, cryptically.

“ _Especially_  me,” said Shepard. “I find out they put a bomb in my arm, that arm is gone.”

“ _Understood, Commander._ ”

Shepard shook her head and continued down the corridor to the  _Normandy_ 's main armory.

The corridors of the ship were throwing her off, and she wasn’t entirely certain that she was comfortable with it. The electric lamps provided stronger, more cheerful illumination than the harsh blue glowstones used in most Alliance ships - the reason being that electricity was far more valuable in the auxiliary systems supporting the drive core, while glowstones could simply be replaced when they burned out.

Truth be told, Shepard  _preferred_  the warmer yellow-white of the electric lamps, but she wasn’t about to admit that. Not even to herself. It was a matter of  _principle_. Even if she didn’t end up with a headache after four hours.

 _Principle_.

She passed through the doorway to the ship’s armory and came face to face with one of the other enigmas in her new life.

Jacob Taylor was sprawled across the wooden floor, his hands linked behind his head. His feet were hooked underneath the workbench against the bulkhead and he was using it to keep his legs immobilized while he did abdominal crunches. He had removed his jacket - it was currently draped over one of EDI’s grey boxes against the inner hull.

Shepard paused in the doorway and watched. After ten repetitions, he would sit up, grab a weapon off the workbench, and strip it down. Ten more repetitions after that, he put it back together, counting the seconds it took to assemble.

It was a familiar exercise. Shepard recognized it from her N2 training. It was another bit of confirmation that he was who he said he was: former Special Forces who went to the private sector. Not that he’d given her any reason to doubt this, with the way she’d seen him in action, but she wasn’t just teasing EDI when she said she didn’t trust anything Cerberus had its hands in.

"Are you here for the show or will you be joining me?" Jacob said, disassembling the rifle for the third time. "There’s plenty of room."

"Rain check," Shepard said, and meant it. "I need to get my muscles back into proper shape before I start tearing them up again like that."

Jacob nodded and extricated himself from the workbench. He grabbed the edge of it and pulled himself up into a standing position, before grabbing a towel and draping it across his shoulders. “Fair enough. Offer’s open when you want it.”

"I’ll take you up on it," Shepard promised.

She walked around the armory and did a private inventory. There were weapons of all shapes and sizes, both aethertech firearms and carefully-sharpened blades. She recognized a turian sabreclaw prominently displayed on the wall, underneath a krogan waraxe that looked every bit as old and dangerous as the scarred battlemasters she’d witnessed carrying one.

"Arrendale?" Shepard asked, picking up what looked like at first glance to be a similar make from her old favorite rifle, but upon closer inspection turned out to be a refit with the new modular coolant system.

"Whitefall," Jacob corrected her. "Good guess, though."

Shepard turned to face him. “There are only two bases where aethermancy is incorporated into N-level training. Never figured you for a Helljumper.”

Jacob chuckled at that. “Sort of the opposite. 58th Pararescue.”

Shepard gave a low, appreciative whistle. “The few and the proud. How many drops?”

"Thirty-two. Twelve in batarian territory."

Shepard nodded. “Batarians don’t take kindly to enemy action behind their lines.”

There was the shadow of a wince that flickered across Jacob’s face. “Don’t I know it,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Lost my wingman over Torfan. After that, I rotated to ground units, colonial security. I thought a place like New Eden would be a good place to finish up my tour. Somewhere nice and quiet.” He gave a dark chuckle and picked up the barrel of his disassembled rifle. “You’d know how that one turned out.”

Shepard nodded. “Can’t blame you for going civilian after that. Though I don’t know why you’d pick something like Cerberus.”

Jacob shrugged. “They asked, they were paying, and the work was good. Lots of honest humanitarian efforts, that kind of thing. Then there was Lazarus, and here we are.”

"And here we are," Shepard echoed.

Jacob blinked. “Oh, man. Here I am complaining about my own life to  _you_ , of all people.”

Shepard grinned. “Just because I died doesn’t mean I don’t accept that other people had it rough. I was a groundpounder long before I got into naval command.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I’d cut it as a civilian, anyway.”

"It’s the beds, right?"

Shepard blinked. “What?”

"The beds," Jacob repeated. "First time I slept in a regular bed I thought I was going to sink right down to the floor."

Shepard rolled her eyes. “That would be part of it, yeah. You get used to proper billets and nothing else feels right. I haven’t even seen my cabin yet, but I bet it has a civilian bed in it.”

Jacob pulled the towel off his shoulders. “Tell you what, we’ll get Donnelly to cart in a concrete slab and cover it with cardboard. Get you the regulation sleeping experience.”

Shepard raised her eyebrow and just glared at Jacob for almost a full minute, then they both broke out laughing.

"You know, I’m glad you decided to come with," she said, when she got her breathing back under control, "but I can’t ask you to get right back into the thick of things when you’ve just gotten out."

"Dude," Jacob said, raising his eyebrows in honest surprise. "Commander Shepard needs  _my_  help. There’s no better reason to get back in.”

 

* * *

 

Miranda entered the conference room and sat down heavily. Inventorying the cargo bay and supply closets had taken a better part of two hours, and she hadn’t been able to take the time to reflect on the events of the previous twenty-four hours.

Only yesterday, she had a purpose. A career. A lifeline, in point of fact, from which she could finally take control of her future. Cerberus had connections that nobody else in the entire  _world_ had, and certainly where one did not have to sacrifice her soul to the Shadow Broker in order to acquire.

And with two short sentences, it had all come crashing down.

Unfortunately, your services are no longer required.

 _You’re dismissed, Miss Lawson_.

As if she hadn’t poured two years of her life into Lazarus. Her blood and sweat and tears - in some cases, literally - in order to fulfill some sort of… what, exactly?

Nothing at all, as it turned out. Absolutely nothing, because wonderful, ideal,  _figurehead_  Shepard had turned around and spat in his face. Had commandeered the very resources that Harper had arranged, and was going to  _give_  her. Which, admittedly, was precisely within the scope of her character, and only proved that Miranda had done precisely as she had been asked.

Then what? Dismissal. Completely disregarding everything she had done, the laws she had broken and lives she had ruined, all in the name of Jack Harper.

Her eyes slid over to the machine tucked away in the corner of the room, quietly ticking to itself. Another of Harper’s claws. She glanced around until she found a particular object and moved to set it beside the machine.

There. Dig those claws in all you want, you bastard.

It was petty, but she didn’t care. If Shepard found out, she’d probably agree with her.

Shepard. There was another mystery that Miranda couldn’t solve. She’d read the Commander’s record, viewed the footage that was recovered from the Battle of the Citadel. None of it could have prepared her for when she met the actual woman - Miranda had put Shepard back together almost piece by piece, in some cases, but only when she was whole could Miranda finally see what was inside.

It would have almost been poetic, if the Commander wasn’t so infuriating.

Shepard had gone from presumed prisoner to squad leader in the span of about five seconds. Then not only had she begrudgingly accepted a mission from Harper immediately after escaping the besieged Cerberus lab, but she had performed wildly beyond Miranda’s expectations for a woman who had just had her muscles regrown only a week prior. And after throwing everything back in Miranda’s face about being a Cerberus lapdog, when she could have just flown the  _Normandy_  away and left Miranda to her own devices, Shepard offered her a position on her crew.

Miranda could not figure her out. She was chaotic, yet methodical. Driven and focused, but there didn’t seem to be anything for her to focus on. She was—

"Hey, Miranda, there you are. I was looking for you."

— _in the room with her_ , and Miranda had been too absorbed with herself to notice the door open.

She stood up and turned to face her new Commander.

"Yes, Shepard?" she asked, inwardly wincing at herself for using such an obsequious tone.

"Are you getting settled alright?" Shepard asked, leaning herself against the wall by the conference room’s door. "EDI said you picked the First Mate’s cabin for yourself."

"If that’s a problem, I can move."

Shepard waved a hand dismissively. “Crew arrangements and cabins are perks of being bosun. Who am I to interrupt such a long-standing tradition?”

Miranda had to give a wry smile at that. “Speaking of which, Commander, I have finished inventorying our stores.”

Shepard nodded, waving her hand in the universal gesture for “get on with it”

Miranda cleared her throat and grabbed her clipboard from where she had tossed it on the table. “We have a two-week supply of food and water with the limited crew currently on-board. This will be reduced to one week should we take on the  _Normandy_ 's full recommended complement.”

"Makes sense," Shepard agreed. "The old  _Normandy_  ran with about thirty. I haven’t seen that many people here yet.”

"Full complement is roughly forty-five," Miranda clarified. "Though the ship can be operated with about a third of that number."

A noise from the back of the room drew their attention. “What is that?” Shepard asked.

"Harper’s leash," Miranda said.

Shepard gave her a Look. “Which means what?”

“ _The_ Normandy _SR-2 is equipped with a Quantum Telegraph Unit_ ,” EDI said as her interface rose out of the middle of the conference room table. “ _Using a pair of quantum entangled particles, secure and instantaneous information can be shared between two locations. One particle in a pair is installed here, while the other one resides in Mr. Harper’s office._ ” _  
_

As EDI spoke, the telegraph unit spat out a length of ticker tape directly into the wastebasket that Miranda had recently placed beside it.

"So, what," Shepard asked, "Harper can just send us a message whenever he wants?"

“ _Not only that, but he can also request our specific location whenever he wishes, using the same device._ ” _  
_

"Block it," Shepard commanded.

It was amazing the amount of emotion could be conveyed by what was essentially a ball joint with a camera attached. A half-degree movement was all it took for EDI to seem exasperated. “ _Unfortunately, there is a hardware block in my encephalic network cluster that prevents me from tampering with this system. It would require a complete overhaul to remove the Quantum Telegraph Unit entirely._ ”

"And until then, Harper can keep tabs on us at any time," Miranda added.

"Ergo, leash." Shepard nodded. "So it spits out messages into that trash can?"

“ _That is not part of the standard equipment_ ,” said EDI, helpfully.

"That was my addition," Miranda offered. "Anything the Illusive Man has to say to us is obviously important enough to require  _special handling_.”

Shepard cracked a grin. “I was wrong about you, Miranda, and I don’t mind admitting it.” She pushed off from the wall and stretched her arms. “Anyway, back to inventory. Donnelly and Daniels said we had cannons, how’s our ammunition?”

"Backordered," said Miranda. At Shepard’s expression, she held up her hands. "We woke you up early. Ammunition was supposed to come on Tuesday."

Shepard sighed. “Can’t go all the way to the Citadel with an unarmed gunship. Looks like we’re hitting a stockyard. What’s nearby?”

EDI whirled on her axis until her speaker was facing Shepard directly. “ _Connecting you with the helm._ ” _  
_

There was a crackle, and Geoffrey Moreau’s voice filtered through EDI’s speakers. Miranda blinked when she realized that he was reciting a multi-lingual list of curse words _alphabetically_.

"Geoffrey," said Shepard in a stern voice.

The unorthodox vocabulary lesson halted midword and was replaced by a decidedly unmanly shriek. “ _Huh? What? Commander, where are you?_ ”

“ _My terminals also function as an intraship communications network,_ " said EDI, from the same speaker.

“ _Oh, wonderful. Not only do I have to deal with ship cancer, but I can’t even do so from the privacy of my own chair._ ”

"Flirt with the ship later," said Shepard, ignoring the sputtering protestations that followed. "Where’s the nearest harbor market town?"

“ _From Tiptree? Closest you’re going to get is Gateway Omega._ ”

Miranda winced. “I’ve been there. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Shepard shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not official yet, and we won’t survive to Alliance skies without working cannons. Set a course.”

“ _Yes, ma’am. How about the pirates that will surely attack us while we’re there?_ ”

"One step at a time, Mister Moreau," said Shepard. "One step at a time."


	4. The Pirate Kings of Omega

"Night falls," said Talus, idly watching the sunset out the window. "But day  _breaks_. You ever think about that?”

"What?"

Talus turned and repressed a sigh as he saw his coworker still sprawled across the couch in the guard’s station. “C’mon, Cliff. Wake up. If the boss catches you like that again, it’ll be your hide.”

"Boss never comes in here," said Clifford, reluctantly lifting his cap from his eyes. "Not between shifts."

"What about last week? You got sent home for three days without pay, and  _I_  had to pick up the extra shift without getting any overtime for it.” Talus clicked his mandibles against his jaws angrily. “At least  _pretend_  to be working, okay?”

"You take everything so seriously," opined Clifford. "It’s a loading dock. What’s going to happen?"

Talus raised a tridactyl hand to his face and tried to keep his headache under control. “Spirits, he didn’t mean to say that. Please do not punish me for the ignorance of my comrades.”

He turned back to the window and glanced at the endless rows of shipping containers underneath the security tower. Gateway Omega was a hub, after all, even if it wasn’t a wholly official one, and manufactured goods were always coming and going through the docks.

A flashing light got his attention. He wouldn’t have noticed it had he still been contemplating the sunset. Some sort of low-level glowstone, by the blue glow.

"We have company," he said, straightening his uniform and whacking Cliff on the knee to wake him up again.

"What? At this time of night?"

"We’re guards," Talus snapped, feeling Basic creeping back into his posture and putting a military snap to his voice. "Time to actually guard."

He grabbed a rifle off the rack and left the security tower. A quick check behind him showed that Clifford, lazy-ass human notwithstanding, was coming up behind him, similarly armed and armored. The deep red of the uniform looked strange on a human, but then again, everything else did too.

Heh. Stupid primates and their soft edges and their  _hair_. Talus never really understood the hair. Turians didn’t have it, neither did asari or practically  _every_  other species out there in the world. Except for maybe quarians, Talus figured, but they kept that hidden anyway, so it didn’t really count.

Humans were the only species that actually seemed  _proud_  of their strings of dead protein, and Clifford was no different. Not content to restrict himself to the unwieldy red mop of fur on his head, Clifford maintained an equally bushy covering all over his face. The almost orange hue clashed horribly with the red security armor, but Talus knew his human partner didn’t care at all.

Talus shook his head and focused as they crept through the stacks of shipping containers. Most of them were empty; Gateway Omega exported almost as much as they brought in, and the corrugated metal boxes needed somewhere to be while they waited to be filled. That was why the job was such a boring one; who would break into a warehouse full of nothing at all?

Except someone  _had_.

They rounded the corner to find a huddled group of creatures, large and small. Talus counted a krogan and two batarians, helmet-less but heavily armed, surrounded by a smattering of vorcha. They were crowded around a makeshift fire-in-a-barrel, and they hadn’t noticed the two guards…  _yet_.

Talus gripped his rifle as he assessed the situation. The batarians had on matching leather jackets, each dyed a rich blue with a white crest emblazoned across the back. The krogan and the vorcha all wore red and black, though none of their outfits were quite as uniform. Some wore tattered jackets, others had simply opted for leather straps attached to each other by simple pieces of cloth. All had spikes and other metal bits woven into the fabric, giving a haphazard and almost feral look - quite a feat for the vorcha, who already looked as feral as any relatively-intelligent species had a right to be.

Blood Pack and Blue Suns. Two of the rival pirate crews that each claimed Gateway Omega as their territory. Two of the most vicious criminal organizations in the entire Lower Terminus.

That they were there, in the warehouse, having what appeared to be a civil conversation, was the most baffling part of it all. Talus could barely make out what they were saying over the pounding of his own heart, but despite his self-preservation instincts (and the furious gesticulations of his partner), he crept closer to get a better angle.

"…have her day, just you wait," one of the Batarians was saying.

"You still haven’t said the part about why I should care," said the krogan. The vorcha surrounding him broke into a fit of giggles. Talus would remember that sound for the rest of his life - usually after jolting awake after the nightmares reached their crescendo.

"Think about it," said one of the batarians. "We wouldn’t stand a chance by ourselves. Neither would you."

"Shows what you know," said the krogan, but Talus could tell he was seriously contemplating the batarian’s words. "What about Jaroth?"

"Eclipse will be on board," said the batarian. "Especially after the raid last night by Arch—"

"ARE YOU INSANE?" the krogan bellowed. "Don’t speak his name!"

"We’re alone," said the second batarian. "What is he going to do?"

"NOT ALONE," one of the vorcha screeched. "SMELL HUMAN. SMELL TURIAN."

In one movement, every gun in the cluster of criminals was brought up to the doorway. “I thought you said this place was empty,” the krogan accused as he glared at the guards.

The lead batarian - heavily tattooed, where the other’s face was blank - frowned. “They’re just a pair of security guards. Kill ‘em and we’ll be fine.”

"It’s not just us!" Talus shouted, desperately. Behind him, Clifford was shaking his head, terrified beyond all rationality.

The krogan stopped. His shotgun never wavered, even though it was being held in a single hand. “What do you mean, it’s not just you? Who else knows you’re here?”

"We placed a call in to dispatch before we left the tower," Talus lied. "There’s a Special Weapons team on its way right now."

One of the vorcha lumbered forward and sniffed the air around him. “THIS ONE SMELLS OF LIES,” it hissed.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought," the krogan responded. "Sorry, kid. Looks like this is it."

He raised the shotgun and drew back the hammer—

_SPANG_

The krogan’s hand erupted in a spray of orange. The shotgun went flying and discharged itself harmlessly into a container. Harmlessly, of course, in relative terms; Talus could see the metal warping inward from the force of the blast.

In an instant, all guns were focused on the ceiling. “ _He’s here!_ " shouted the batarian, his four eyes seeking something in the rafters above.

"I knew you shouldn’t have said his name," said the other.

“ _Shut up!_ ”

There was a shuffling sound, and Talus could make out a mechanical  _whirrr_. Not long afterwards, something flew into the flaming barrel, and with a  _whumph_  of suddenly-expanding foam, the fire was snuffed out.

The lights in the rafters winked out.

There was a horrible screeching from the clustered vorcha.

There was a horrible scuffling noise, only meters from Talus and Clifford’s position.

There was a horrible silence.

Talus took a tentative step forward, his fingers clutching his rifle. “Hello?” he asked, ignoring Clifford’s hissed warnings to be silent. “Who’s there?”

“ **A friend.** ”

The voice came from everywhere at once, and yet nowhere at all. It echoed from the rafters above and bounced off the corrugated aluminum of the shipping crates.

“ **A word of advice** ,” said the voice, forcefully deep and gravelly. “ **Next time, _actually_  call for backup.**”

The warehouse lights buzzed as they turned on, slowly gaining illumination from the power source they had mysteriously been disconnected from. When the light grew bright enough, Talus could see the batarians trussed up together, back to back, slumped against a container. The vorcha were all unconscious and stacked in a haphazard pile. And the krogan…

The krogan was wrapped in some sort of steel cable, wound enough times around its body that not even a yahg could tear it apart with brute strength alone.

Of the mysterious savior and his raspy voice, there was no sign. The only other evidence to show that someone had even been there was a pair of crudely-drawn wings, quickly painted on the shipping container the batarians were leaning up against.

Talus stared at his partner, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me, man,” said the human. “I’m on break.”

 

* * *

**Chapter 4:  
The Pirate Kings of Omega**

* * *

 

The  _Normandy_  approached an impossible island.

Unlike most continental landmasses in the Central Expanse, the island supporting Gateway Omega seemed to float directly in the storm barrier. It was the only landmass known to exist in two planes at once - the lower portions jutted out into the Lower Terminus. This allowed smaller vessels to travel between planes without being equipped to handle the ship-wrecking turbulence of the storm barrier itself, as the island itself was cored through the centuries of mining. The abandoned tunnels had been widened and shored up to allow passage, while keeping the current mining operations separate and relatively secure.

No one was sure how the outsides of the landmass stood up to the storm barrier without constant erosion, but the fact of the matter was that it  _did_ , and moreover, it had continued to do so for as long as people occupied it.

Surrounding the upper lip of the hollowed-out core was a row of docks, with the “civilian” side separated from the “freight” side. Shepard couldn’t see the difference between the two at first glance, however, and said as much.

"There really is none," Miranda responded. "Gateway Omega was a bastion of smugglers and other petty criminals almost since it was founded. The division was mostly there to allow the more legitimate customers a sense of… security." She shrugged. "Now, however, it’s a safe haven for some of the wide-spread pirate gangs in the Lower Terminus, so a few things have changed."

"Like what?" Shepard asked. She was honestly curious, too. She’d heard of Gateway Omega from her time in the Alliance Navy - everyone had. None of the seediest bars on backwater landmasses compared to the stories that passed around. But her tours of duty had rarely brought her to the Lower Terminus, and  _never_  to Omega.

"There are no legitimate customers," Miranda replied.

"She’s right," Geoffrey said, steering the ship into a landing pattern. "Omega goes from bad to worse and back again before you can spit. If there’s a bright spot in the world, this is the place it’s farthest from."

“ _Statistically speaking, Irune is the place that is farthest from any natural light,_ " EDI added, helpfully.

Geoffrey groaned. “Speaking of being furthest away from any bright spots,” he said. “The old  _Normandy_  was a thing of beauty, and moreover, she was  _quiet_.” That last was almost shouted pointedly at EDI’s interface, watching him patiently from its grey box. “Now it’s got this nasty thing we don’t want to talk about. It’s like ship cancer.”

"Be nice to the Automated Intelligence," Shepard said. She ran that sentence back through her head, pulling a face. "I really did just say that, didn’t I?"

"I’m not one to judge," Geoffrey said in response. "Mock relentlessly, but not judge."

Any reply Shepard was about to give was lost when the radio buzzed.

“ _Unscheduled vessel, identify yourself or be blown out of the sky_.” _  
_

The voice was deep, a lower baritone than most humans’ would be, but punctuated by a particularly nasal resonance. _Batarian_.

Geoffrey toggled the switch on his microphone. “Omega Flight Control, this is the private freighter  _Normandy_  on approach from the colonies. Requesting permission to dock for resupply.”

"Private freighter?" Shepard asked, when he had released the button.

"Do you want to announce to the island full of pirates that we’re a fully-loaded warship with no ammunition and no crew?" Miranda countered.

Shepard bowed her head, conceding the point.

“ _We have no record of a freighter by that name_ ,” the batarian flight controller accused. “ _Are you a fool_?”

"No, sir, I am a meat popsicle," Geoffrey responded. "Do we have clearance to land or not? Because we can easily take our business elsewhere."

There was a scuffling noise from the radio’s speakers. A different voice returned. “ _Freighter_ Normandy _, you are clear to dock. Inner ring, berth six. Aria’s authority._ ”

Shepard quickly drew her finger across her throat in the universal gesture of “kill signal”. Geoffrey nodded and released the button, muting the microphone from their end once again.

"Who’s Aria, and why is this suddenly so easy?" Shepard asked. Her muscles might still need their reflexes retrained, but her danger sense was unchanged - and it had been flaring full-tilt ever since hearing a batarian voice.

"Local warlord," said Miranda.

"Pretty much exactly that," agreed Geoffrey. "Except completely wrong in almost every single way. She doesn’t rule Omega with an iron fist; she  _is_  the iron fist.”

"Laws aren’t enforced on a Council or Alliance basis," Miranda explained, when Shepard’s puzzled look didn’t go away. "In Gateway Omega, rules are observed upon threat of Aria."

Shepard shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We’re in for as long as it takes to resupply and shove off. This Aria can rule her island all she wants.”

“ _Freighter_ Normandy _, respond!_ ”

Geoffrey hit the transmitter button at Shepard’s nod. “Acknowledged, Control. On approach to berth six.”

“ _Aria sends her regards to Captain Shepard and extends an invitation for dinner,_ " the voice continued.

"Captain who?" Geoffrey glanced up apologetically. "We’re a private vessel operating under Lawson Holdings, Incorporated—" Miranda glowered at him, but he pressed on. "—so really, this is probably all one big misunderstanding."

“ _I’m afraid I must insist_ ,” said a third voice over the radio. Unlike the other two, who were clearly batarian and male, this one was lilting and feminine - in the way that a twelve-gauge shotgun was feminine if you painted it pink and added lace. It was a hard voice, edged with experience and authority, a voice that hinted at being sinuous and sensual if it wasn't already busy with beating the listener to death in a back alley somewhere. Aria herself, Shepard presumed.

Shepard leaned over and pressed the transmitter button herself. “I’m afraid we’re on a tight schedule. We’ll just pay our docking fees and be back in the sky after we restock, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“ _I think you’ll find that our merchants are all temporarily closed for the evening,_ " said Aria. " _You’ll have your pick of the market - after dinner._ ”

The radio went silent. Shepard glanced around the cabin, and found no help.

"Now what?" said Geoffrey.

"If we try to run, they’ll blow us out of the sky." Miranda, for a wonder, didn't look terrified as she said this. No, she was more pissed off than anything.

"Get your lists together," Shepard ordered. "EDI, get Taylor up here, and tell him the same. We’re leaving this place loaded for bear, even if I have to have dinner with a warlord to do it."

"You’re really taking one for the team, Commander," said Geoffrey. "See if she’ll let you take a doggy bag."

 

* * *

 

The turf wars between the three “primary” pirate organizations, despite their outward appearances, were little more than formalities. The Blue Suns hated the Eclipse Sisters, the Eclipse Sisters hated the Blue Suns, and the Blood Pack hated  _everybody_. To the casual observer, anyone from a rival organization that met up with a counterpart tended to have particularly violent confrontations, often punctuated by gunshots, explosions, and one particularly baffling case involving a pair of vorcha and a chainsaw, where statuary had been disassembled and reassembled across town in obscene and anatomically impossible positions.

All of this was a front. Not entirely dishonest, as the tensions between the gangs were real and often deadly, but behind closed doors, the leaders were often civil and quite pleasant to each other. Neutral grounds were respected and enforced, operational districts were debated and discussed over tea, and there were numerous non-compete contracts signed by all parties.

The Blue Suns restricted themselves to protection rackets, hired muscle, and vehicular theft and resale. The Eclipse Sisters handled most of the illicit red sand trade and private security for shady-but-publicly-clean corporate leaders.

The Blood Pack had no contracts on the books with either organization, but they mostly kept to themselves and terrorized the populace around their home bases. If they ventured out into the other aspects of piracy around Gateway Omega, they didn't bother for long - the krogan leaders appeared to get bored quickly with anything that was more paperwork than waving guns around, and the vorcha just liked mayhem in general. Any time they dipped their toes in activities that would be a breach of contract with the other two, the Blue Suns and Eclipse ignored them and moved onto their next targets.

Even so, it was exceedingly rare to see representatives from all three together in one safe house. It usually took something major for pirates to work together, and this was of monumental importance.

"He’s getting bolder," said the krogan. Scarred, weathered, obviously seen more than his share of action. He was  _old_ , and thus not one to dismiss lightly. ”Constabulary picked up one of my teams over in the warehouse district.”

"How do you know it was him?" A salarian. He was draped casually over a chair, clad in the yellow and black of the Eclipse Sisters - the name was unchanged, even though the asari huntresses that started the pirate crew began to recruit male salarians and humans of both sexes into their ranks. All were sisters in the eyes of the asari.

This particular salarian’s face was covered in markings. Tattoos? Paint? It was hard to tell, and he was unlikely to say on his own.

The krogan growled. “Because  _he_  tagged them with that stupid sigil.”

The third leader shifted uneasily in his blue and white leather jacket. “Archangel,” he spat. Human. Also scarred, though not nearly as much as the krogan. “We dealt with the rest of his friends. We’ll deal with him just fine.”

"Don’t underestimate this one, Santiago," said the krogan. "He’s annoying, but he isn’t  _stupid_.”

"He’s a turian," said Santiago, rolling his eyes. "The only reason he’s lasted this long is because he caught us by surprise. Now we’re ready for him."

Across the street, Archangel adjusted the grip on his rifle and laughed quietly to himself. Bugging the warehouse had proven to be a useful investment, time and time again, and this was no different. The only problem was that the moment he struck here, at their stronghold, the advantage would be gone forever.

Of course, this was the only time all three gangs had had their upper ranks in one location at once. If ever there was a time to show his upper hand, that time would be now.

The only real question was, when would have the most impact, and how?

He focused his gaze down the sight of his rifle. The krogan would be the most dangerous, but taking him down in one shot was a feat that not even Archangel could claim.

The human was a thought. Vido Santiago, Archangel recognized from word one. Not only was he the leader of the Blue Suns on Omega, but he had recently taken over the leadership of the pirate crew altogether. Taking him down would throw the organization into chaos as they tried to fill the power vacuum that followed.

The salarian, however, was the most canny, and also presented the best target. Archangel didn't recognize him specifically, but he recognized the tattoos. This leader was kin to Jaroth, the local power for the Eclipse Sisters.

Archangel returned his focus to the conversation in the warehouse across the street, and waited for opportunity to strike.

"The answer is simple," said Santiago. "Ignore Archangel and go after the real issue."

The amount of terrified and indignant sputtering from the other two was music to Archangel’s ears. His mandibles twitched in a smirk.

"Are you absolutely  _insane_ , human?” roared the krogan. “Or are you just deaf, as well as stupid? I just told you not to underestimate him.”

"Besides," the salarian added, "it is never a good idea to leave a threat unchecked, no matter how unimportant it is to our true goal."

There was a silence. Archangel tapped his headset to make sure it was still picking up the radio signal.

"This again?" asked the krogan. His words spoke of disinterest, but his tone was almost thoughtful.

"I spoke to Jaroth about it earlier today. He says it’s entirely possible,  _if_  we play it smart.”

"That leaves the krogan out," said Santiago, with a laugh.

The krogan growled in annoyance. “If you think you can take me, human, go right ahead. Better men than you have tried.” Great meaty knuckles cracked as the krogan bared his teeth in a feral grin. “They were delicious.”

"This is what I’m talking about," said the salarian. "We need to stop this needless posturing and  _focus_.”

Archangel narrowed his eyes. That… didn't sound good. One of the reasons he’d lasted so long in the underbelly of Gateway Omega was by playing the pirates off each other. Separately, they were dangerous, but manageable. At each other’s throats, however, and it was almost a game.

The last time they had worked together, though… that had cost him.

He adjusted the grip on his rifle once more. If he could nip this plot in the bud -  _now_ , before the pirates rallied together - he just might save the mining town from months, if not  _years_  of organized predation.

 _Just give me a moment_. He sent his prayers to anyone who might possibly be watching over a back-alley vigilante. The spirits of justice, of vengeance. The memory of his old CO. Anyone.

_Just give me the perfect moment to shut this down._

"What do you propose we do, then?" Santiago was saying. "Since you have all the answers. Do we post another bounty?"

"Nothing so crude," said the salarian. "We slaughtered his squad easily enough once we caught them. We just need to set a trap and he’ll be just as helpless as the rest of those troublemakers."

And there it was. Archangel took a deep breath, then squeezed the trigger on the exhale. It was measured. It was  _textbook_.

The salarian’s head exploded in a fine green mist, and stunned silence paved way for shouts of alarm.

It was music to his ears.

 

* * *

 

The streets of Gateway Omega’s commercial district were a microcosm of the mining colony as a whole - littered with sullen workers, harshly lit by red glowstones, and smelling slightly (but distinctly) of sulfur. News reports and advertisements filled the air, intelligible only when walking directly under a specific speaker, but melding together into a disorganized chaotic din anywhere else.

They were the kind of streets that Shepard would not normally walk through without a weapon, body armor, or backup. Thankfully, she happened to have two of the three.

True to Aria’s word, the shops were all closed. Corrugated steel shutters were drawn across windows and doorways. Where there weren't steel shutters, there were iron gates. Where there weren't iron gates, there were wooden signs in a variety of languages.

Shepard shook her head. “Looks like she wasn't playing around,” she said, watching a hooded quarian hurriedly duck behind his counter to avoid her gaze. “I wonder if this is a regular occurrence with her.”

"Playing host to rogue Spectres?" asked Jacob. "Or do you mean how everyone’s running scared to avoid her wrath?"

"Both," muttered Shepard. "And I am not a ‘rogue Spectre’."

They passed a street corner that was crowded with people of all races, all huddled around a batarian preacher. He was standing above them, shouting even louder than the nearby radio speakers about how the end of the world was upon them all.

Shepard blinked as they walked by. The sidewalk prophet was standing atop an actual soap box. She mentally checked that box off the list of things she never thought she’d actually see.

"Technically, you aren't even a Spectre anymore," said Miranda, helpfully. "Your file was closed when you were declared dead."

"Wait, what?"

"Makes sense," said Jacob. "It’s a good way to make sure there aren't any Zombie Sarens running around, causing trouble."

"Don’t even joke about that," Shepard snapped. "He was bad enough the first time around."

She gave a heavy sigh as they approached the rendezvous location. “I guess it’s a good thing we’re headed for the Citadel next. I’ll have to try to get that cleared up. See if they can reinstate me, or something.” She glanced down at her borrowed firearm and lack of armor. “It’d be nice to have access to the Council resources.”

Jacob arched an eyebrow. “You think the Alliance will give you trouble?”

"There isn't really any precedent for reinstating resurrected officers," Miranda answered. "We've already crossed shaky theological ground bringing Shepard back, but in terms of legality, the ground doesn't even exist."

"One thing at a time," said Shepard, as they reached the building labelled - poetically appropriate, Shepard thought - Afterlife.

"Whoa," said Jacob. "There’s something you don’t see every day."

Shepard followed his pointing arm to see an elcor at the head of the impatient mob of people, waiting to enter. This elcor was larger than average, its enormous musculature covered, yet somehow not hidden, by large swaths of black cloth. Shepard could only stare as she realized what Jacob was pointing at.

The elcor was wearing an immaculately tailored tuxedo. Complete with handkerchief and perfectly-arranged bow tie. The sharp cut of his suit only served to enhance his stature, and as fancy as he was dressed, the elcor  _loomed_.

Most of the crowd was hanging back, arranged in somewhat of an orderly fashion. A few of the prospective patrons, however, had clearly been drinking their courage, and were arguing with the elcor.

"Come on, let me in," Shepard could hear one man slurring, clearly thinking himself far more persuasive than reality was proving. "Aria’s expecting me,  _ugh_.”

"With barely-constrained violence: You are not on the list. You will wait your turn in the queue, or you will wait your turn in the hospital."

Shepard shook her head as the drunkard backed down. Elcor did not mess around, everyone knew that. It was a result of living at a depth that punished you for literally taking the wrong step; the force of gravity at Dekuuna’s level was more than any but the heavily muscled quadrupeds could stand. If an elcor said it would break your legs, they absolutely meant it.

The bouncer raised his head as Shepard and her crew approached. His eyes widened in shock, and possibly - though it was hard to tell with elcor sometimes - abject terror.

"Warily: You may enter, humans. Aria is expecting you." The elcor gestured at the door behind him with a slow movement of his head - any faster and in any heavier gravity, the motion would have snapped his neck. "With sincere concern: You will refrain from starting any trouble within the building."

"I’m sure this will just be a civil conversation," Shepard said. "Aria seems like a reasonable person."

"Incredulously: You clearly have not met Aria before." With that, the elcor turned back and continued looming over the crowd.

“ _Hey, you just let them through. Why not me?_ ”

“ _Annoyed: They were on the list._ ”

Shepard shook her head and motioned for Miranda and Jacob to follow her through the doors.

Afterlife, it turned out, was nothing like she expected. Then again, she wasn't entirely certain  _what_ she was expecting. She had been in seedy dives before, especially in the lower wards of the Citadel. Traders, smugglers, off-duty soldiers, and other questionable characters tended to congregate in run-down buildings with dim lights, broken seating, and watered-down beer. The most infamous mining colony and haven for pirates seemed like it would rank a few stars below even those accommodations. But the reality of the situation was a bit different.

It was  _classy_.

The lobby was brightly lit, with plush velvet furniture and polished hardwood floors. There was a young asari staffing the coat room, checking jackets, weapons, and extraneous purchases. A batarian and a turian each stood on either side of the curtained entrance to the main floor, on hand to assist any customers… or to eject troublemakers from the premises. All three were attired in similar tuxedos, adjusted as necessary for body type and - in the case of the turian - tailored openings for spurs.

The asari waved them over to the coat room. “Captain Shepard and guests?”

"That’s us," said Jacob. "I’m ‘And’, and this is ‘Guests’. Happy to meet you."

The asari nodded, giving absolutely no indication that Jacob’s response had flustered or irritated her in any way. “Madame T’Loak sends her regards, and has waived Afterlife’s strict dress code for  _this specific_  occasion.” The girl’s tone managed to indicate that “this specific occasion” would be the only allowance Shepard would receive. “Additionally, I must remind you that Afterlife is a weapons-free facility. Please remove all firearms, blades, or aethertech devices.”

Shepard crossed her arms. “And if I don’t?”

She had to admit, the girl was good - her expression didn’t change in the slightest. “I regret to inform you that if you do not comply with Afterlife’s policies, you will be escorted from the building and barred from further entry. Afterlife is a Judgement Free location, and all rules apply equally to all of our esteemed guests.”

"Shepard, a moment?" Miranda said, grabbing Shepard by the elbow and pulling her away from the service window.

"I’m not giving up my gun in the middle of a pirate’s den," Shepard protested. "I don’t care who this Aria thinks she is."

"Normally I’d agree with you," said Miranda, against all indications otherwise. "Omega, however, is another case entirely." At Shepard’s scoff, she shook her head. "Look at it this way. I still have my multitool, and Mister Taylor can’t stop being an aethermancer. Considering all asari are natural aethermancers, they couldn't bar him on those grounds if they wanted to. You won’t be defenseless."

Shepard was silent a moment. “So meet Aria on her own terms, in her territory, surrounded by her bodyguards?”

"…yes," Miranda said, lamely. "Yes, that is what I’m saying."

Shepard sighed. “And what worries me even more is that it’s not even the craziest thing I’ve done in my life.” She paused. “Lives. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

They made their way back to the patiently-waiting coat check girl, and Shepard unlimbered her gun belt. “I’m getting a receipt for this, right?”

"Of course," said the girl, her tone still unchanged from before. "Afterlife prides itself on customer service. For your inconvenience, I can even waive the standard fee." She held her hands out for Shepard’s weapon.

"You were going to  _charge me_ —”

"Shepard," cautioned Miranda.

Shepard took a deep breath. “Right.” She handed over the gun belt without another word and accepted the slip of paper the asari offered in return.

"Aria thanks you for your patronage," the girl continued, processing Miranda and Jacob’s weapons in a similar fashion. "Welcome to Afterlife."

 

* * *

 

A metallic boot touched down on the blighted soil of Colony Designation: [Freedom’s Progress]. It was good that the boot was entirely made of inorganic material; the corruption in the environment would have immediately begun eating away at even the toughest of shoe leather. This was a fact that was known to the owner of the boot. However, it was currently an unimportant thought and was discarded almost as soon as it had originated.

An optic lens surveyed the damage of the former human colony. Similarities were noted between this and previous sites. The datapoints were compared and flagged as a 98.1117% match.

The old platform picked its way across blackened streets and almost purplish grass. It noted the rate of decay and determined it was 97% similar to the miasma-corrupted soil samples taken from Colony Designation: [Ferris Fields]. A subroutine developed for data extrapolation and hypothesizing noted that the decay rate was nearly unchanged from the gravel and concrete of the streets to the organic matter in the grass and soil. Corrosion of the ferro-ceramic frame of the old platform would be noticeable in one hundred thirty-seven minutes of constant exposure. Corrosion would affect motor control at six hundred fifty-two minutes. Combat efficiency would be impaired at seven hundred twenty-three minutes.

Containment of interconnecting units would be compromised at seven hundred twenty-four minutes.

These datapoints were noted and discarded as irrelevant. The old platform had no intention of remaining at the colony long enough to cause more than minor cosmetic damage. It would only stay long enough to review the colony’s security footage and confirm the presence of the Shepard-Commander.

 

* * *

 

Despite the enforcers in black ties and waistcoats, Shepard still had an expectation of what Afterlife was. Shiny shoes and top hats notwithstanding, it was a pirate’s den. Operated by pirates, for pirates, and from her many tours of service in the Kingdoms Alliance Navy, Shepard thought she had a pretty decent handle on what to expect from pirates.

A nightclub was not it.

The main floor of Afterlife was dimly lit, with red-filtered light from translucent lamp shades and reflected off murals of stylized flame, which covered the walls from floor to ceiling. There were small tables, meant to seat two to four at a time, encircling a main stage which extended from the northern wall out into the center of the room. Along the outside edge of the floor were darkened booths, about half-full with patrons who were nursing their drinks and watching the entertainment.

And what entertainment! Atop the main stage was an asari, wearing a dress that Shepard would swear was made out of diamonds - she shimmered and sparkled in the spotlight that was centered upon her. It was a strapless dress that left her shoulders bare, yet covered her far more than most asari on stages were accustomed to.  Her arms were clad in skintight silver gloves that ended above her elbows, also shimmering in the spotlight yet not nearly as much as the dress. She wore silver slippers - Shepard couldn’t see from the doorway whether they were heels or flats, but they sparkled as well.

She was standing behind a microphone, cradling its stand with her arms in a fashion that would get most people arrested on the Citadel, and she was singing a low, sultry tune.

A batarian approached Shepard. He was clad in the same formal attire as those in the lobby. “Captain. Aria is expecting you.”

Shepard tensed, but followed. Miranda and Jacob hung back as he led her to a staircase nestled along the eastern wall. It led up to an enclosed balcony, with smoked-glass windows that prevented those below from seeing inside.

She took a deep breath and entered Aria’s lair.

She had hardly taken ten steps inside before the asari by the window held up a hand. “That’s close enough.”

Shepard stopped. “Aria T’Loak, I presume.”

"You presume correctly. Though I can’t imagine it was a particularly difficult deduction to make." Aria turned around, and Shepard got a good look at the woman who held Gateway Omega in an iron fist.

She was tall, for an asari. Muscular and broad-shouldered, though it was hard to tell how much of that was Aria and how much was attributed to the full brocade fleet admiral’s jacket she wore. It was white with gold accents, which marked it as either early Kingdoms Alliance or late-colonial Batarian Hegemony - all rank and commendation adornments had been torn off, so it was difficult to tell at first glance. The fact that it was actually physically torn didn’t help; the ragged edges and dark brown bloodstains gave it a particularly savage look that the original tailor likely did not account for. Underneath the jacket, Aria was clad in an almost midnight blue jumpsuit. A pair of gun-belts were slung low on her hips.

"Captain Shepard," said Aria, giving her the once-over. "Or else a very rich and very  _stupid_ impersonator.”

At the asari’s nod, Shepard felt a prick at the back of her neck. She whirled around and caught the arm of a batarian who had snuck behind her. He winced, and the needle in his hand trembled as he tried to keep his grip on it.

"Kindly unhand my servant." Aria’s voice was less a command than a simple statement. She spoke with  _absolute certainty_  that the reality she proclaimed would come into being, with an undertone that resonated with dark promises of what would happen should it not.

"I don’t like being stabbed in the back, T’Loak," Shepard growled in response. "Especially by batarians with… what is this?" She twisted the batarian’s wrist, causing him to follow the motion and kneel or risk a broken limb. He took the knee, and the needle finally slipped from his fingers; Shepard snatched it out of the air and held it up. "Is this my  _blood_?”

"You aren’t the first ‘Captain Shepard’ to come to Omega lately," said Aria, in that same steely tone. "Every single one thus far has been an impostor, trying to cash in on a legacy and leverage power, money, or sex. Commodities that Omega holds in immeasurable quantities." She stalked towards Shepard, moving away from the window. "Regardless, if you break Bray’s arm, I will break something of yours in return."

Shepard glanced back and saw exactly how much pressure she was putting on the batarian’s arm. She released him and backed away.

"Is it broken?" asked Aria.

Bray shook his head and rolled his wrist, wincing as the joints popped.

Aria sighed. “You’re relieved, Bray. Go down to the clinic.”

Bray shook his head again. “Fit for duty, ma’am.”

"No, you’re not," said Aria. "Remind Solus that he owes me a favor."

Bray hesitated, his four eyes meeting Aria’s two, before he nodded and headed reluctantly out the door.

"Now then, Captain," said Aria, lowering herself onto the plush leather sofa that stretched along the entire wall of her window box. She crossed her legs and splayed her arms across the back of the cushions. It was a predator’s move, and one that displayed absolute control and confidence; she was taking up as much space as possible and presenting her opponents with the easiest avenue of attack, with the surety of someone who knows that attack will never come. "Dinner will be along shortly. Let’s talk."

Shepard remained standing and held up the half-filled syringe. “You go through all the trouble to draw blood and you’re suddenly all business?” She shook her head. “People are usually more concerned with who I am.”

Aria’s expression became one of casual disinterest. “Your death was downplayed, but hardly what I’d call secret,” she said, tossing her head to glance out at the band on stage on the main floor. “I had to be sure it was really you. Your reaction told me just as much as analyzing that sample would have.”

Shepard raised her eyebrows. “And what did it tell you?”

"You’re standing there talking to me instead of bleeding out through a hole in your head," said Aria, gesturing towards the dark ceiling of the club.

Shepard squinted as she peered through the tinted windows. It took her a few seconds, but she caught the flash of blue asari skin and the reflective lens of a sniper’s rifle.

"Like I said, you’re hardly the first Shepard to come through these doors in the last two years," said Aria. "Every single one of them thinks they know me. They don’t think I’ve done my own independent research."

"And me?" Shepard pressed.

Aria waved a hand dismissively. “Suffice it to say I’m convinced of your credentials. Least of which is the fact that you pretend to know that much about me in the first place.” She gestured to a section of the couch, and Shepard moved to take a seat.

"All I really know is that you run Gateway Omega," Shepard said. She was taking a gamble, and she knew that Aria knew it - Rule One when dealing with dangerous and powerful people was to never show weaknesses. Displaying a vulnerability to Aria was akin to playing dead in front of a particularly large and hungry vulture.

But then again, Aria had just said what happened to the last people who tried to pretend they knew more than they actually did. Caution and honesty was the way to go with the asari warlord.

Her gamble appeared to pay off when Aria started laughing. It wasn’t the evil cackling that preceded a double-cross, though it wasn’t the hearty chuckle of pure delight. No, this was a deep, throaty laugh of sarcastic derision.

"Run Omega?" Aria asked, still laughing. She stood up and spread her arms wide. "I  _am_  Omega. You don’t need more than that.” She sat back down and shook her head in disbelief. “But of course, you would. Everyone needs something, and they all come to me. I’m the boss, CEO - queen, if you’re feeling particularly dramatic.”

Her smile dropped, and her expression hardened into a mask of pure focused determination. “It doesn’t matter, though. Omega  _has_  no titled ruler, and only one rule.

"Don’t. Fuck. With Aria."

The door opened, and a pair of Aria’s well-dressed butler-slash-bodyguards entered, each carrying a covered silver platter. At Aria’s nod, they set their dishes down on the coffee table, one in front of each woman, and turned to depart.

"Easy to remember," Shepard remarked, staring after the guards as they left. Each was clearly carrying a weapon underneath their tuxedo jackets, and Shepard would have to be a fool to assume that the very conspicuous firearm was the only weapon available to them.

"If you have trouble, someone will remind you," said Aria, removing the cover to her platter. "Go on, Captain. My chefs are the best in the world. You wouldn’t want to deny yourself."

Shepard glanced at Aria’s meal - a glazed and filleted fish, purple in scale and meat, resting almost artistically on a bed of rainbow-hued Armali vegetables. Then another dubious glance at her own covered dish.

"Oh, don’t worry," Aria said. "I notified Gardner about your allergy to Thessian foods. Now go on, you don’t want it to get cold."

Shepard raised her eyebrow at the comment and raised her own dish. Her other eyebrow soon followed suit. “This is—”

"Please," said Aria, with a dismissive wave. "I had your ship tagged the moment it approached the Terminus. You aren’t nearly as subtle as you think you are."

Shepard took a cautious bite of the dish that was so artfully prepared for her. “I presume you know a lot about me that I wouldn’t be comfortable with you knowing,” she said. “This is a family recipe.”

"Information is as precious a commodity a crystallized aether, or Prothean steel," Aria responded. "It is bought and sold dozens of times over, and Omega is full of more secrets than just yours." She started stripping down her own meal in that same efficient, elegant-from-the-other-direction manner as she moved. "Everyone hears something and I hear everything. And lately, what I’ve been hearing has me…  _concerned_.”

"Define ‘concerned’," said Shepard, taking another bite of her own meal.

"A Spectre is eating dinner in my nightclub," said Aria, dryly.

"That’s pretty concerned," said Shepard. "To be entirely honest, this is the last thing I’d have expected when you…  _requested_ … my presence. I’m still waiting for the first shoe to drop.”

Aria laughed. “Comfort and complacency go hand in hand. I find I get better results if my opponents are off-balance, don’t you agree?”

"Am I your opponent?" asked Shepard, and in earnest. "An hour ago I didn’t even know who you were."

"An error that I have helpfully corrected." Aria pointed lazily at Shepard with her fork - a piece of fish was still speared on the end of it. "And the answer to your question is no. Not if you’re smart, and you and I both know the human Alliance didn’t let you rise through the ranks just to watch your tits jiggle."

Shepard raised an eyebrow at that, but kept silent. It was clear Aria wasn’t finished talking.

"Your life brought chaos to the status quo," continued Aria. "Your death only continued that trend. And yet, here you are."

Shepard snorted. “Are you going to keep waxing poetic all day, or are you going to tell me what you want?”

There was a terrible silence, and Shepard wondered if she had made a mistake. Then Aria’s eyes twinkled and she leaned back in her couch once more.

"Direct and to the point. There’s no doubt at all that it’s really you." Aria flicked her hand in the vague direction of the doors, her body pulsing slightly with the blue-green glow of aethermancy. The doors to her window-box slid closed. Another aether-charged wave dropped the curtains from their ties, completely removing all visibility in or out of Aria’s lair.

"Let’s talk about Collectors."

 

* * *

 

It had all started out so  _simple_. And yet, it had all gone so  _horribly_  wrong.

Archangel sat at the window of his apartment, in the block of buildings his team had used as a home base almost since he had started this operation. It was at a prime location, surrounded by bridges and support beams, offering only one clear avenue of approach with a long, unbroken sight line. It was at the edge of a factory district, so there were as few innocent bystanders in the immediate vicinity as possible.

It was also under siege.

Archangel ejected the coolant canister from his rifle, slotted in a new one, and thanked the spirits that he had chosen the location that he did. The bridge formed a perfect bottleneck, and both sides knew it. Every time one of the pirate gangs sent a wave of thugs at him, he was able to ventilate their heads before they hit the halfway point.

It was at times like this that he was thankful for being born a turian. Where other cultures had militaries that were often seen as optional careers, any turian citizen was automatically enlisted into basic training as a matter of adolescence. It made it a lot easier to switch his mindset from “vigilante” to “foxhole”.

Still, it was a crap situation, and he knew it. A proper siege was fought on two fronts, simultaneously. There was the crushing offense, against which the defenders had to counter with whatever tools they had available. Archangel had that covered handily, with the aforementioned terrain advantages, as well as a number of carefully placed traps if the pirates actually made it inside the building.

However, having only one path of entry meant that there was only one proper exit. He was stuck, and while he had stockpiled crates of coolant canisters over the past year, and enough rations to feed a regiment for weeks, it was nonetheless a finite supply.

Furthermore, though his flight from the pirates’ meeting place was well-planned, the surviving leaders rallied faster than he anticipated, turning an exit under cover of confusion into a fighting retreat. His cloak and cowl, once a rich midnight blue, was now scorched and frayed with battle damage, from the near misses and glancing blows he had recieved. They’d had to work for every hit, but he had to be lucky every single time. They only needed to be lucky  _once_.

He peered through the scope of his rifle, and his mandibles parted in shock. The krogan warlord of the Blood Pack - Garm the Clanless - was directing the next swarm of vorcha over the bridge. A drying stream of orange stained his armor, leading from a bullet wound in the side of his head. That was  _impossible_. Even though a single head shot was rarely sufficient damage to kill a krogan, their secondary nervous system was only coordinated enough to manage a fight-or-flight - either triggering a blood rage, or getting the krogan to safety so that their regeneration had time to work in peace. Even krogan couldn’t regenerate brain tissue  _that_  quickly.

And yet there stood Garm, shouting commands.

The swarming vorcha suddenly pulled back, and Archangel’s spine began to tingle with anxiety. Something wasn’t right.

Suddenly, with a flare of blue-green Aetherdrive exhaust to announce its arrival, a Blue Suns gunboat swung into view. Archangel only had a moment to leap out of the way before its autocannons spun up, filling the space he had only moments before occupied with a hail of bullets. They tore into the walls of the building, shattering support columns and sparking off the steel framework.

The gunboat floated around the building, disappearing from Archangel’s view, as it emptied the autocannons’ barrels into the lower floors, shredding the foundations as easily as it had the upper level.

The tremors were the only warning he had that the building was about to come down. Shouting a curse, Archangel leapt out the window, only seconds before the roof came crashing down. The top floor caved into itself, which set the lower floors crumbling in the aftershocks, and soon the entire structure was nothing more than an imploding pile of concrete and dust.

Archangel snatched the grappling hook and rope off his belt, and swung it haphazardly at the struts under the bridge. It sailed between the steel supports and latched securely. Knowing that the gunboat was circling around for another pass, he started climbing, hand over hand, even before he stopped swinging.

There were three feet left to climb before he could transfer from rope to the underside of the bridge, when the blue-painted gunboat broke through the growing cloud of dust that marked the apartment’s grave.

"Okay," he said to himself, hanging perilously by a rope while the gunboat’s autocannons spun up once more. "This looks bad."

He let go of the rope.


	5. A Dark Night

"Alright," Shepard said, as she approached the table Jacob and Miranda were occupying. "We’re on a timer."

"Sounds like business as usual for you," said Jacob, rising out of his chair and following Shepard to the door. Miranda hurried to keep up.

"You have no idea," Shepard admitted. They walked the rest of the way to the lobby in silence - most of Aria’s information was sensitive enough that she didn’t want any of the regular patrons of her establishment to overhear.

She blinked as they approached the coat room - the attendant had already pulled their weapons out of storage and had her hand out for their receipt.

"Thank you for visiting Afterlife, Captain Shepard," said the girl at the window, as Shepard was checking over her gun belt. "We hope you had a pleasant time and look forward to seeing you again soon!"

"Thank you," said Shepard, distractedly. Then she looked up. "Hey, the weight’s off."

"Complimentary coolant recharging is one of the premium services we provide here," replied the girl, not missing a beat. "Your weapons have also been cleaned and oiled."

"Which is why there’s normally a fee," said Miranda. "Stop gaping at the hired help, please."

"Right, right," said Shepard. "Thank you again, Miss…?"

"Firos, ma’am," said the girl.

"Miss Firos," Shepard repeated. "I apologise for my manners earlier—"

"Unnecessary, ma’am." The girl’s smile never wavered, and Shepard nodded to her as she strode out of the nightclub.

"That woman is hardcore," said Jacob as they walked down the steps.

The elcor bouncer glanced at them, then turned his attention back to the whining man in the crowd that still hadn’t been allowed entry.

"You noticed that too, huh?" Shepard asked.

Jacob nodded. “Nightclub full of pirates, smugglers, and the general lawless of the Terminus? It doesn’t matter how classy the place is, those kinds of people don’t react well to being asked to disarm themselves. Especially not where they’ll be surrounded by their equally grumpy peers, and Aria’s well-armed…” - he waved his hand as he tried to think of an appropriate word - “… _associates_.”

"You have to realize that she’s sitting on her own small armory there," said Miranda. "And the window has a quick-release for armored shutters."

"There’s job security, and then there’s Aria," Jacob agreed. "Young or not, that girl has a quad."

"This is great and all," said Shepard, "but it doesn’t change the fact that we are on a  _timer_. Miranda, do you have your shopping lists?”

Miranda held up her pocket notebook, which was covered in neat, small handwriting. “The shops are still closed, though.”

"Check again," said Shepard. "Aria sent the all-clear while we were eating dinner. I want you to get as much on that list as can be ready to go by morning."

And indeed, the shops all along the street were opening their doors and turning on their lights. Miranda glanced around uncertainly as she took stock of their surroundings. “I’ll go at once.”

"Two things before you do," said Shepard. "First, send someone to the scrapyards and see if we can get those spare parts Donnelly had mentioned. The longer we can be in the air, the better."

Miranda nodded and made a note. “And the second?”

Shepard pulled a face and glanced down at herself. “Get me some decent clothing,” she said, indicating the too-loose spare clothes she was still wearing from the Lazarus base. The Cerberus logo had been yanked off the tunic with a hasty lack of precision, given the presence of loose threads from the embroidered patch, but the black and gold lining remained, and Shepard probably looked as uncomfortable wearing it as she felt.

"Shall I send a tailor to your quarters?" said Miranda, dryly.

Shepard gave her a Look. “You put me back together, Miranda. If anyone knows my measurements, it would be you. Just… use your best judgement, alright? I can’t wear a uniform until I’m reinstated, but I need to be taken seriously as a ship captain if we’re going to be spending time in the Terminus. I can’t be wearing scraps.”

"You’d be surprised," Jacob piped up. "You’ve seen what vorcha wear these days, right?"

Shepard ignored him. “Can you do that, Miranda?” Her tone wasn’t  _quite_  pleading, but quick flash of sympathy from Miranda told her she’d gotten her point across.

"I’ll see to it," Miranda said, before turning around and heading for the first open shop.

Shepard nodded and continued along the street. Jacob hurried to keep up with her.

"So where are we going?" he asked. "What’s the timer?"

"Aria gave me a couple leads on where to find allies," said Shepard. "I wouldn’t normally consider it, but these are desperate times."

"Might as well look into it," Jacob agreed. "At least until you talk to the Alliance." He glanced around. "So our leads are in the seedy bar district?"

"Sort of," said Shepard. She stopped in the middle of the street and took note of the signs of the local pubs. Choosing one that looked the most likely, she headed inside. "One of her leads is in trouble with the local mercenary groups, and she has a contact that knows how to track them."

The bar was a lot more like what Shepard was anticipating on Omega, as opposed to the top-hat-and-tails aesthetic of Afterlife. Instead of the soft glowstones, there was a single electric bulb, hanging from a cord from the ceiling. There were few decorations on the walls, which were pitted in places with bullet holes and darkened brown, violet, and green stains that had not quite completely been scrubbed from the wood.

It was not crowded - most of the tables were empty, and half the space of the bar itself was unoccupied. Most of the patrons looked up as Shepard walked in, and immediately dismissed her presence as unimportant.

Sitting at the bar, however, was her quarry. He hadn’t noticed her - his attention was wholly on the radio set behind the bar, at which he was spewing insults and curses as casually as most people would discuss the weather.

Shepard took stock of him as she rounded the bar. His hair was nearly shorn, though enough of the grey-and-black stubble had grown back to reveal a receding hairline. His face was pitted with scars and wrinkles in equal measure, which was more of a sign of how dangerous he was than anything else - anyone who survived such injuries would know how to avoid them in the future. One of his eyes didn’t follow the other, and the light reflecting off it told Shepard it was made of glass.

Shepard reached over the bar - ignoring the protests of the bartender - and shut off the radio.

"Oi!" shouted the scarred man, glaring at her. "I was listenin’ to that!"

"Zaeed Massani?" Shepard asked, also ignoring his glare.

The man’s anger drained somewhat, to make room on his face for suspicion. “Who’s fuckin’ asking?”

His accent was nearly as rough as his visage. The second syllable of “asking” was almost an afterthought, tacked onto the end of his aggressive vowel movement.

"My name is Shepard, and this is my associate, Mister Taylor. We have a business proposition for you."

Zaeed took one glance between them and turned back to his drink. “Fuck off.” He reached over and turned the radio back on, groaning when he heard the score of some sporting event.

Shepard turned the radio back off. “Aria T’Loak recommended your services, Mister Massani.”

Jacob gently pulled at her elbow. “Come on, Shepard. He’s not interested.

"Too fuckin’ right, I’m not interested," said Zaeed, reaching over to turn the radio back on.

Shepard raised her eyebrows, but held back what she wanted to say. Aria had mentioned this might be a problem, and had given her just the ammunition to use.

"Alright, Jacob," she said, turning away. "Let’s go. We’ll find someone else to track down Santiago for us."

There was a snap as the radio turned off again. “Hold just one bleedin’ moment.”

Shepard allowed herself a quick satisfied grin, then schooled her features before she turned back around. “What is it, Massani? I’m in a hurry.”

Zaeed had pulled himself off his stool and was checking over a scuffed-up, battle-scarred rifle. “Vido Santiago? The son of a bitch is back on Omega?”

Shepard nodded. “According to Aria, he’s hunting down someone that I need to talk to. The way I see it, if we find Santiago, we find Archangel.”

"Then you’ve come to the right place," said Zaeed. "I’ve been waiting for the blue bitch to give word for weeks."

"So you’ll take the job?" asked Jacob.

"Take it?" Zaeed laughed. "For a shot at Vido, I’ll do it for fuckin’ free. Get a move on, you lot!"

And with that, he strode out the door, a trail of invectives following after.

 

* * *

**Chapter 5:  
A Dark Night**

* * *

 

The gunboat rose out of the darkened mine shaft and landed on the bridge spanning the chasm. The frayed remains of Archangel’s grappling hook was still attached to the underside, its rope swaying gently in the updraft.

The pilot - a surly-looking batarian in the blue-and-white leather jacket of the Blue Suns - shook his head at the pirate leaders approaching the gunboat.

"Damn it!" shouted Santiago, running his hand through his hair. "You took the varren?"

"And the hounds," said the batarian. "They took one whiff and passed out."

"That means he’s still alive," grumbled the hulking krogan, his orange blood now dried into crusty burnt umber streaks down his face. The bullet hole was already scabbed over, both entry and exit, and Garm’s motor control was already good enough to fiddle with the safety on his shotgun without setting it off.

They said that Garm the Clanless was a mutant, and it definitely showed. Krogan may be able to regenerate brain tissue, to the extent that they were effectively immortal, but headshots simply did not heal that fast, not even for krogan. And yet there he was, his hands steady and his eyes focused.

It was no wonder he had iron-clad ownership of the Blood Pack in this region.

"Not for long."

The tattooed, red-skinned salarian next to Garm was diminutive, and his movements were measured and precise, but his very presence almost dwarfed the krogan. It might have been better if he had been more animated than a statue; his tranquil fury was somehow worse by comparison. The quietness of his tone belied the rage within.

"We can’t track him, Jaroth—"

A simple motion from the salarian silenced Vido Santiago, and Jaroth turned his cold gaze towards the chasm.

"Archangel killed my brother. His life expectancy can now be measured in minutes." He waved a hand towards the pit. "The only reason he would mask his scent trail would be to cover up the fact that there is such a trail. He may have survived the fall, but he’s bleeding, and possibly worse."

"We’ve got him," said Santiago, comprehension dawning on his face.

"Mobilize your forces," Jaroth ordered, with a grim satisfaction. "He’s smart, he’s resourceful, and he’s dangerous. But we’ve got Archangel cornered. He won’t be making fools of us much longer."

 

* * *

 

The Gozu District was the closest thing Gateway Omega had to a true residential block. The corridors in the hollowed-out cliffside were lined with apartment buildings, restaurants, and short strip-mall shopping centers - mostly groceries and a local apothecary counter.

Most of these were still in disarray from an infectious disease outbreak that had seen the entire district quarantined. Houses and shops had been broken into during the rioting and subsequent looting, but there were, at least, a few businesses that had been spared. Places that were too well-defended, or too out of the way from the path of the riot, or even - in the case of the building Zaeed Massani had led them - deemed too sacred for a simple smash-and-grab.

"A bar," said Shepard, crossing her arms. "You rushed us here, out of one dirty, depressing bar, just so you could sit in this one."

"Ease up, turbo," said Zaeed, ignoring Shepard’s grunt of annoyance. "We’re on the hunt, yeah? Do you hunt by crashing around, scaring off your quarry? Or do you sit and wait all quiet-like where you know they’ll be?" He tossed back what was left of a beer and gestured around him. "Two days ago, this entire block was full of the bastards. Looting, mugging, you name it, they done it."

"I’d heard there was a plague on Omega," said Jacob, peering out the window. "What happened?"

"Get your fool head back in here before someone shoots it off!" Zaeed shouted. "Bloody hell."

Jacob pulled his head back in and rolled his eyes at the irate mercenary.

"Right." Zaeed nodded, satisfied.

It took Jacob a few seconds to notice that Zaeed wasn’t going to say anything further. “The plague?” he prompted.

"Not much of a story," said Zaeed. "Disease spread, people died. Some salarian found a cure, people stopped dying. You want a  _real_  story, now, I can tell you about when I clawed my way through a krogan barricade with nothin’ but my skivvies and a spanner.”

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose in an effort to forestall a headache. It wasn’t very effective. “Zaeed, I don’t think we have the time—”

"So there I was, under a burning Aralakh sun…" Zaeed plowed on through Shepard’s protest.

"Movement!" hissed Jacob from the window.

"Oh thank god," muttered Shepard, ignoring the affronted sputtering from Zaeed. She checked her firearm one last time and moved to a better vantage point. "Sitrep."

"Three Blue Suns, headed northwest," said Jacob, pointing out the leather jackets. "Fashion disasters, every one."

Shepard glanced upwards. “Rooftops are clear,” she said. Then she stopped and stared at the creatures loping through the streets, following after the Blue Suns.

"Vorcha," said Jacob. "Nasty things, if you’ve never fought them before."

"I know what vorcha are," said Shepard. "I was only dead for two years, not in a cave for the past forty."

"Blood Pack," said Zaeed, sighting down his rifle. "Don’t underestimate them. Their krogan battlemasters beat competence into ‘em, and I do mean that literally."

Shepard shook her head. “One more thing to worry about. You get a bead on their heading?”

"There’s only two major sites of any importance down there," said Zaeed. "Atmospheric Control, and the free clinic."

Both Shepard and Jacob turned incredulous gazes on the mercenary.

"They’re heading to a clinic?" asked Shepard.

"There’s a free clinic on Omega?" asked Jacob at the same time. They glanced at each other in confusion, then turned back to Zaeed.

"Mordin fuckin’ Solus," said Zaeed. "Salarian son of a bitch. Sort of weasel that would shoot you just as soon as he’d stitch you up."

"Sounds like your kind of salarian," said Shepard.

"Fuckin’ oath," Zaeed agreed. "Saw him once take on the Blood Pack leader. Garm. It was a routine protection racket, huge krogan and a bunch of vorcha, pullin’ shit off walls and making a mess. Solus took his measure, called him a ‘mutant’, said it would take four bullets to the brain to kill him."

"How’d he get out of that?" asked Jacob.

"Pulled a gun, faster than I could see. Shot Garm  _three_  times in the brain and told him to get the fuck out of his clinic.”

"So why would the Blue Suns and Blood Pack be heading to the clinic?" asked Jacob.

Shepard smacked her forehead. “Archangel’s on the run,” she said. “If he’s hurt, would Solus be the kind of person to fix him up?”

"I’d be damned surprised if Solus wasn’t in on the whole Archangel operation from the start," said Zaeed. "Spike-head’s crafty, but without someone on the outside, he’d long since have been up shit creek in a barbed-wire canoe with a tennis racket for a paddle."

"I thought you were going to help us rescue him," Jacob said.

"The fact that he is a nosy fuckin’ drongo who thinks the sun shines out of his arse," replied Zaeed, grabbing his rifle, "is an immutable fact I am stating for the record. It does not mean that a rescue is not what is happening now."

 

* * *

 

Once the shops had been given the order to re-open, it didn’t take long for the commercial district to return to the bustling, crowded, and noisy state Miranda had always imagined it to be. It was almost as if the shut-down had never happened, she decided - a bazaar experience.

Within an hour, she had procured for a full complement of ammunition for the  _Normandy_ 's cannons, a month's supply of rations, and the spare parts for Donnelly, all to be delivered to the _Normandy_  overnight. She’d even arranged for a tailor to make speed alterations to a set of clothes. (Shepard was right, of course; if anyone knew her size, it would be the woman who spent two years rebuilding her from a pile of cooling meat.)

She’d then spent the  _next_  hour renegotiating the prices, after finding out that her cash reserve was not nearly enough to cover her order.

Fortunately, she was able to walk away with about eighty percent of her original order, at somewhat less exorbitant pricing than the otherwise amiable elcor had attempted to sucker her with.

Miranda Lawson was comfortable working in amounts of single digits and upwards of seven, but the in-between was always left to… well,  _others_. Cerberus quartermasters and supply lines. She’d never had to negotiate her resources, not since those resources were limited to “a place to sleep” and “a non-zero amount of food for the day”.

She’d had  _plans_  for those resources, beyond the project involving Shepard. Not having them around was a shock to her system, and one that she still wasn’t entirely sure was real.

"Excuse me," she said to the shopkeeper as he glared over the counter at her. "Do you mind if I use your transmitter?"

"Sternly disapproving: The telecommunications device is for paying customers only."

"I  _am_  a paying customer,” growled Miranda through gritted teeth. “You still have my order in front of you.”

The elcor glanced down at the sheet of paper, as if surprised to see it there. “With reluctance: you have five minutes, or I am restoring the original prices.”

"Yes, fine, whatever," said Miranda, reaching for the handset and dialing a location.

Maybe it was only a miscommunication, she thought, desperately. Maybe it was a mistake.

“ _Welcome to Cerberus Acquisition Service Hotline!_ " The voice on the other side of the line was cheerful and effervescent. " _My name is Sarah, how may I direct your call?_ ”

"Yes, hello," said Miranda, holding in a sigh of relief. Maybe it had only been. "This is Operative Lawson, and I need to check the status of an expense account. Code Lazarus-four-two—"

“ _One moment please, while I transfer your call._ ”

"No!" Miranda shouted into the handset. "No, don’t give me the mach—"

There was a  _click_ , and the young woman’s voice was replaced by the tinny sounds of recorded music. Miranda slumped against the counter in disgust.

"With forced cheer: Welcome to Harrot’s Emporium of Exotic Goods and Services," the elcor said as a new customer walked in. "When you need something fast, it can only be Harrot’s."

With another  _click_ , the measured voice of a Simulated Intelligence came on the line. “ _Thank you for calling Cerberus Expense Network Reporting,_ " it said. " _Please respond with your Network Identification Number._ ”

"Lawson five three six three alpha," Miranda hissed quickly. "Report balance and transfer options—"

“ _We’re sorry,_ " the Simulated Intelligence interrupted, " _but our records show that Operative_ [ **Miranda Lawson** ]  _and/or the accounts belonging to _Operative__ [ **Miranda Lawson** ] _have been terminated._ ”

The cold knife of realism stabbed Miranda deep in her heart. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours! Surely her accounts wouldn’t have been frozen that quickly.

“ _This transaction has been flagged as anomalous,_ " the mechanized voice continued, " _and a Cerberus Conflict Resolution Squad has been dispatched to your location. Please remain still and assume the Conflict Resolution position—_ ”

Miranda slammed the handset down on the transmitter, the sudden noise startling Harrot’s other customers.

"Annoyed: Please be careful with the communications equipment."

"I apologise," said Miranda, clenching and unclenching her left hand. "My order remains unchanged. You promised a six-hour delivery window?"

"Irritated: It is as I have said before," responded Harrot. "With wounded pride: I am an elcor of my word."

 

* * *

 

Laying siege was a lot difference to a building half-recessed into the cliffside in a darkened alley, Shepard mused, than it was for an entire city.

For one, it was harder to lob cannonballs from a safe distance with all the other buildings in the way.

Zaeed had taken them along a side-road and through a series of maintenance corridors, which smelled just as bad as maintenance corridors anywhere else in the world, but had gotten them reasonably close to the makeshift command center the pirates had set up.

The residential blocks in Gozu’s lower wards were even worse off than the shopping center. Looters had picked through everything that wasn’t nailed down, and Omega’s constabulary - or more likely, Shepard figured as she glanced around the sunless streets, waste management - hadn’t been by to clean up the bodies of those who had entered a house to find a shotgun in their face.

The command center was set up in one of those streets. Within easy sight of the alley that housed the Solus Free Clinic, it was nonetheless blocked off with concrete dividers, metal doors, and anything else that was clearly scrounged from the area that looked like it could withstand some punishment. As they approached the encampment, Shepard noted that it very neatly broke up sight lines from the alley to those gathered behind the blockade.

"Here’s a question," said Jacob, very carefully keeping his hand off his holstered side-arm. "We just took the mother of all detours to sneak past whatever security checkpoints the pirates might have set up, right?"

"Right," said Shepard.

"Okay, because we just walked through some fluids that I would rather not be identified to me right now, and I want to be entirely clear that isn’t going to be wasted by us  _walking casually into Pirate Headquarters Central_.”

"Cool your exhaust pipes, Army," said Zaeed, fishing around in his jacket’s pockets. "Blood Pack’s got vorcha, don’t they? They’d smell us coming a mile off, otherwise."

"Let me remind you that we are no longer in the sewers," said Jacob. "Referencing, of course, my previous comments about  _frighteningly unidentified fluids_. I think we’re going to run up against the same problem here.”

Zaeed’s face lit up with a childlike glee as he found what he was searching for, and drew out a cigar case and a lighter.

"Really?" said Jacob, conspicuously edging away from Zaeed. "An open flame after that?"

"Grow a goddamned quad," Zaeed replied, lighting his cigar with one hand and raising the other in an obscene gesture. "You want to bust through a Blue Suns blockade to extract someone currently under fire, you get safety, speed, or survival. Pick bloody two out of three."

"Come on, Jacob," Shepard said, wryly. "Where’s your sense of adventure?"

Jacob stared down at what was still clinging desperately to his shoes, despite his attempts to scrape it off on the cobblestones. “My sense of adventure’s just fine, man. I’m more worried about my sense of  _smell_.”

"Can it," Zaeed growled. "We’re going in. From this point on, you fuckin’ play along, or I shoot you now to save time. Am I goddamned clear?"

Shepard narrowed her eyes. “You’re not going to shoot us,” she said, pitching her voice low. It was less an order and more of a simple statement of fact - Geoffrey had referred to it as her “Ship Mom Voice” more than a few times when he thought she was out of earshot, and she was hard-pressed to correct him. She uttered a statement, and that was just how it was going to be.

He reached up and unzipped his leather jacket just enough to show the top half of a tattoo, starting at the base of his neck and wrapping down his right shoulder, disappearing under the collar of his undershirt. It was in black ink, rather than white, and the skin surrounding it was pinkish and scarred - much like the rest of Zaeed’s skin - but Shepard recognized it. She’d been passing that tattoo for the past half hour, scrawled hastily on doors and walls, and emblazoned on the leather jackets of those patrolling pirates they had been avoiding.

"No," he agreed. "I’m not. Because you two are going to shush and eat your veggies whilst daddy goes and interrogates a bunch of fuckin’ posers."

Without glancing back at the two of them, Zaeed turned around and strolled casually into the compound.

Shepard gave Jacob a Look. “You heard the man,” she said. “Into the hornets’ nest.”

Jacob grimaced and gave one final attempt at scraping the gunk off his boots. “They’ll see this coming,” he grumbled.

"Only in our case," said Shepard. "They’ll smell  _you_  first.”

"Har har," Jacob deadpanned. He checked his firearm and made sure it, at least, had been spared the contents of the sewer.

Shepard did the same, trailing along behind Zaeed. “You’ve done this more recently than I have. Anything I should keep in mind?”

Jacob looked taken aback. “You’re asking  _me_  for advice?”

"…should I not?" Shepard raised an eyebrow. "I haven’t known you for very long, but we’ve been through some shit together—"

"I’ve been saying that for five minutes," Jacob interrupted. He raised a hand in apology at her glare. "I know, I know. You’re right." He flexed his fingers and flared his aethermancy, checking that just as methodically as he had his weapon. "Zaeed’s not wrong. Just hang back, look tough, don’t take any shit but don’t offer it in return."

"Brute squad," confirmed Shepard, with a grim satisfaction. "I can totally do brute squad."

 

* * *

 

The interior of the pirates’ command center was as disorganized as Shepard was expecting. Granted, she couldn’t say anything herself, since in her tours of duty she’d had to work in bombed-out buildings, forest caves, and the occasional overturned school bus. By those standards, Pirate HQ was practically spotless.

Even so, the swarm of vorcha in the corner was making her nervous. She was having a hard time keeping her hands away from her weapon.

"Zaeed Massani," she heard the batarian at the table say, as the mercenary made his way up.

"Cathka?" exclaimed Zaeed "Doesn’t that just knock you for fuckin’ six. What are you doing in this goddamn hellhole?"

"Playing babysitter," Cathka said, nodding at the Blood Pack vorcha in the corner. "All the big shots are getting in place for the final push."

"Turian mongrel finally going to swing?" asked Zaeed, leaning against the broken shop sign that was currently serving as a wall, his cigar clenched between his teeth.

Cathka gave a dark chuckle. “Trussed up and tossed into the Maelstrom if Jaroth has anything to say about it.” He squinted his upper eyes as he stared at Zaeed. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

"Supposed to be a lot of things, mate," Zaeed replied. "Never let that stop me before."

"Still, I’m pretty sure I heard Santiago say you ate a bullet a while back."

Zaeed chuckled. “Asari takeaway, four-eyes.”

Jacob nudged Shepard with his elbow. “What’s asari food have to do with it?” he whispered.

"Went right through him," replied Shepard, her voice heavy with the understanding of a shared dilemma.

The exchange did not go unnoticed. Cathka reached for his firearm as he turned to them. “And who the hell are you?”

"They’re with me," Zaeed growled, his friendly tone evaporated. "Couple of hired guns, here to see the Archangel thing through."

"Yeah?" Cathka raised a brow ridge. "Never seen you before, human. Why are you after Archangel?"

 **Tactic:**  Brute Squad.

"Killed a coworker of mine a couple years ago," she said. She’d dealt with enough thugs in her life that she was able to affect the same speech patterns - the slow, threatening drawl that said she wasn’t unalert, she was just  _resting up_. “Got a chance to pay him back for that.”

Cathka gave a non-committal grunt, seemingly satisfied with Shepard’s answer. “And you?” he asked Jacob.

"I go where the money goes," Jacob replied, smoothly.

Cathka snorted. “Usually a wise move. In this case, maybe not so much. We’ve had a number of ‘freelancers’ come this way, hoping for a piece of the bounty.”

"Where’d they all go?" asked Shepard, glancing around the command center. The only people there without any easily-identified paraphernalia of the three major pirate gangs were herself and Jacob - even Zaeed had his Blue Suns tattoo, and  _that_  was a question that wasn’t going to go unasked for very long.

As if on cue, the sound of a high-powered rifle bounced through the alley, echoing with an almost sinister thunderclap.

Cathka jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the alley behind him. “They found out why we didn’t pay them up front. So am I putting you down for the frontal assault, or what?”

"The same frontal assault you sent those freelancers on?" Jacob asked, his eyebrows threatening to leap off his face altogether.

"Who knows?" said the batarian, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You may be the lucky ones to get across and bag the turian. Anything could happen."

"It’s no skin off my back," growled Zaeed. "Are we clear to go or what?"

Cathka shook his head. “Ordinarily, I’d say no, the operation already started and you’d only just get in the way. But I don’t think even Archangel can kill a dead man.”

"Fuckin’ oath," Zaeed agreed. "You’re a good man, Cathka. How much is Santiago paying you to babysit the recruits?"

"Not nearly enough."

Zaeed reached over to clasp the batarian’s hand. “When this is over, you look me up, alright? I’ve got a few jobs that could use a man of your expertise.”

Cathka chuckled. “You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical. How many times have you been reported as killed in action?”

"More times than they’ve been true, four-eyes," Zaeed replied.

"True enough." Cathka waved them through. "Go on, humans. Get out of my sight."

Halfway down the alley, as they ducked behind barricades and crept out of any sight lines from the clinic, Jacob spoke up. “So what do you mean, Archangel killed a coworker of yours?”

"Aria told me something interesting over dinner," said Shepard.

 

* * *

 

The push down the alley was, in retrospect, one of the most painfully-familiar experiences of Shepard’s life. It resembled less of a Black Armor operation and more like the counter-assault in the streets of Elysium.

At the beginning of the push, the three of them were surrounded by mercs and low-ranking members of the pirate companies. Each of them was loaded for bear, and each was wholly unprepared for the assault.

Some were snagged by tripwires, which Shepard managed to spot before she was caught by them herself. Others were simply gunned down, headshots picked out from the clinic’s shadowy vantage points.

As a result, the crowd was decidedly thinner by the time they reached the last barricade before the clinic’s doors. It was cobbled together far more haphazardly than the allied pirates’ headquarters down the street, being little more than roadblocks and overturned carts. It certainly wouldn’t hold up under sustained fire, but served at least to block line-of-sight from the clinic’s interior.

The occasional  _pock_  of bullets striking the wall behind them - accompanied by the shower of fragmented plaster - kept this at the forefront of their minds.

Jacob poked his head out for a split second, before pulling back into the safety of the pile-o-stuff. “Doorway’s clear,” he reported. “Though they’ve got something weird stuck up in the entrance.”

“Weird,” Shepard echoed, deadpan.

“I didn’t get a good look,” Jacob said, bashfully. “I was trying not to have my head ventilated for me.”

“Alright,” said Shepard, standing up straight. “I’m going to take a look.”

“Are you crazy?” Jacob hissed. “You’re not even wearing armor, get your head down!”

“Trust me,” said Shepard, moving out cautiously from behind the barricade.

“‘sides, we’re at point blank,” added Zaeed helpfully. “Helmet won’t help if the bloke wants to collect.”

“Yes,” replied Jacob, “that’s exactly what I wanted to hear to reassure me. Thank you.”

There was an almost muted  _fwip_  just past her ear, and plaster once again rained down on Jacob and Zaaed. Shepard grinned - just as expected.

“Come on,” she said, lowering her gun and picking her way towards the clinic’s doors. “It’s all clear.”

“Did you or did you not almost get your fool head blown off?” Jacob’s voice floated from around the barricade.

“The fact that he missed is all the proof I need.” She reached the doors of the clinic and waited. “Or you could just stay there and make Archangel think you’re  _not_  with me,” she said, waving her arm in the direction of the pile of corpses they’d had to step over.

Without waiting to see if the boys would join her, she pulled open the clinic’s doors and went inside. She could only shake her head at the muffled swearing that rapidly caught up to her.

 

* * *

 

“‘Weird,’” Shepard repeated, as she stared at the welcome party waiting for them in the clinic’s entryway.

“I wish I could go back to when I didn’t have a good look at it,” agreed Jacob. “Can we do that?”

There were at least a dozen bodies propped up on stands, like a gruesome parody of a tailor’s mannequins. Pirates of various races and allied uniforms, displayed proudly as a warning to any other assailants that might have gotten that far. Each had a pair of paper wings taped to their backs - a calling card, if Shepard ever saw one.

That wasn’t the most disturbing part of the clinic’s welcoming committee, however; someone had gone through these trophies and stuck helpful signs in their hands.  _Free Dental Care On Tuesday_ proclaimed a glassy-eyed vorcha.  _End-Of-Quarantine Promotion: Discounted Antibiotics For Plague Victims_  was held by an ashen-faced turian.

“That’d be Solus,” said Zaeed, shoving himself none-too-kindly past most of a salarian whose sign said  _STD Prevention Seminar Saturday: Be There Or Be Awkwardly Absent From Work For Weeks At A Time_. “Like I said, crafty son-of-a-bitch.”

Something caught Shepard’s eye.

“Does this mean he’s on our side?” asked Jacob worriedly. “Or does it mean he’s going to stuff us and mount us right where little kids can learn about flossing?”

Zaeed chuckled. “What do you mean ‘our side’, Army? I’m an ally of convenience, you realize.”

“Yeah? And what’s  _convenient_  about anthropological taxidermy?”

Shepard frowned as she made her way to the back of the hallway. Something was definitely off about one of the dead pirate dummies.

“I’m not sure what’s scarier,” she said. She walked up to a turian with a tattered cloak covering most of his face. “The fact that they all have signs, or that this one doesn’t.”

“Well, don’t touch the goddamn thing,” growled Zaeed.

Shepard reached her hand up to remove the cloak, but the turian reached up, lightning fast, and grabbed her arm.

“ **I’d listen to him** ,” he said, his voice pitched low and gravelly. “ **You don’t know where I’ve been**.”

Shepard immediately pivoted on her heel, grabbed the turian’s arm, and yanked him over her shoulder. He went flying across the hallway and crashed into a batarian wearing Blue Suns jackets. His sign -  _Ask About Proper Digestive Health Today!_  - fluttered to the ground.

To their credit, Jacob and Zaeed had their guns up faster than Shepard could blink, but she waved them down. “Stand down,” she hissed, putting herself inbetween their sights and the currently groaning pile of limbs.

“Is that Archangel?” Jacob asked, lowering his firearm.

“That’s the bastard,” Zaeed confirmed, leaving his gun up regardless of his words. “Spikes and scales all.”

“Ooohh,” groaned Archangel in response. He was slumped upside-down against the wall, propped up by the pirates he had been thrown into, his tattered blue cloak wrapped halfway around his head.. “That was not my best idea in the world.”

Shepard crossed her arms. “We came here to rescue you, and you pull a stunt like that. What were you thinking?”

Archangel righted himself, extricating himself from the grisly pile. “I was thinking, ‘I’d better make sure that’s actually Shepard under all that powdered plaster,” he said, pulling off the cloak. His hide was a steely grey, with blue face paint streaked across the bridge of his nose, underneath his eyes, and down across his mandibles. An aethertech monocular frame was perched over his left eye; as he spoke, a lens rotated out and swapped places with another one.

He was heart-wrenchingly familiar, and much like when she had stumbled across Tali’Zorah at Freedom’s Progress, Shepard had to fight to keep from being overwhelmed. She instead took that emotion and redirected it.

“Garrus Vakarian,” she said, uncrossing her arms and placing her hand imperiously on her hip.

“Shepard,” Garrus responded, parting his mandibles in sheepish surprise. “I thought you were dead.”

“So did a lot of people,” said Shepard, trying - and failing - to keep herself from grinning like an idiot. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, just keeping my skills sharp. A little target practice.” Garrus retrieved a rifle from an alcove near the door.

“You’ve got half the Terminus gunning for you,” Jacob pointed out. “That’s not just a little target practice.”

“I needed a lot of practice,” replied Garrus. He turned back to Shepard. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

“Everyone keeps asking that,” Shepard grumbled. “It’s like I died or something.” At Garrus’s blank stare, she sighed and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a long story, and I’d love to catch up with you in some place other than a serial killer’s amusement park.”

Garrus blinked. “Oh, this?” he asked, glancing around at the bodies that were now strewn across the floor. “That was the Doc’s idea. Psychological intimidation.”

As if on cue, what few lights were on in the clinic shut off.

“It’s working,” echoed Jacob’s voice in the darkness.

“Well, shit,” said Garrus. “I forgot the password.”

Shepard heard the  _clicks_  of guns being raised, and moved to follow suit, but a sharp pain to the back of her neck stopped her.

“Humans?” asked a high-pitched voice from roughly two feet behind her. “Three, well-armed, varying identification.” The speed and pitch put it at salarian, Shepard figured.

“Mordin,” Garrus sighed from somewhere in the darkness, confirming her thoughts. Mordin Solus, the unstable proprietor of the clinic himself.

“Presence of Blue Suns member…  _troubling_ ,” said Solus, pushing on despite Garrus’s protest - or perhaps he was too absorbed in his own external internal monologue to notice. “Other two in matching uniforms, insignia removed. Black ops? No, too informal. Personal knowledge of Archangel’s operation, identity. Friends? Rivals?”

“Can I just say how tired I am of people stabbing me in the neck?” Shepard grumbled. “It’s wearing a bit thin.”

The pain and miniscule pressure withdrew, and the lights slowly powered back on. Shepard turned and glared at the salarian.

He was  _old_. Shepard hadn’t dealt with very many salarians in her military career, but she knew enough to recognize the bagginess of his skin and the faded pigmentation of his skin around his eyes and mouth. He had a roadmap of old scars across his face, puckered and brown, and the weathered remains of what looked like a military tattoo across his brow. His right cranial horn ended prematurely in a smooth stump.

Salarians, Shepard knew, only lived for about forty years, and Mordin Solus looked like he had lived the hell out of all of them.

He was currently replacing a vial of glistening liquid inside his dusty white labcoat. “Apologies. Trusted Lance-Corporal Vakarian’s identification of your squad, but had to be sure. Hypothesis not proven until  _tested_.”

“Sure,” said Garrus, shaking his head. “It’s not like my word is worth much of anything these days anyway.”

“So what were you going to do if we weren’t who Archangel said we were?” asked Jacob, reluctantly lowering his gun. Zaeed had already dropped his to the ground and was relighting his forgotten cigar.

“That better not have been poison,” agreed Shepard, pointing at Solus’s labcoat.

“Sedative only,” Solus said in what he probably thought was a reassuring tone. “Carefully tailored for humans. Stronger, in your case; Spectre training for most agents includes chemical resistances.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that really would have worked on Shepard,” Jacob said. “I’ve seen some of the files from Lazarus.”

Solus blinked slowly. It was notable from the way he did everything else, which seemed to be at the speed of electricity. “Lazarus. Ancient Londinum mythology; resurrection of the dead.” He inhaled sharply. “Implications…  _disturbing_.”

He shrugged, and the curious contraption perched across his shoulders settled back around his labcoat. It was a segmented manipulator arm that halfway-encircled Solus’s head from behind. It was bronze and leather, like most multitools, of which this device clearly derived from; the arm ended in multiple devices, currently collapsed against each other as it rested.

“We can talk about that later,” said Shepard. “Once we get Garrus safely out of here.”

The turian blinked. “Hey, I was doing fine, you know. You don’t always have to rescue me out of the jaws of death and despair.”

Shepard raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “We had to push our way past a damned platoon, Vakarian, who have this entire block surrounded.”

“We’re not surrounded,” Garrus insisted, hefting his rifle, “we’re in a _target-rich environment_.” He reached up a tridactyl hand to scratch behind his head, just underneath his spiky fringe.

There was a rumbling bass _thud_ , and the floor shook violently. Jacob, who had just finished brushing off the last of the stubborn plaster powder from outside, found himself covered again with a fresh dusting as the explosion in the building’s foundation shook loose the unstable particles from the ceiling tiles.

“...which happens to have us surrounded,” Garrus added lamely.

“Need a hand?” Shepard asked, following him to the rear doorway.

Garrus kicked the door open, not even bothering with the handle. The doorframe splintered under his steel-tipped boot. “I wouldn’t say no.” He paused before heading down the stairwell. “Mordin, take Dusty and Gramps and watch our front. They’re getting desperate now.”

“Consider it done,” said Solus, his multitool contraption springing back into place behind his head.

“Just the three of us to hold back all those pirates?” Jacob asked. He blew down the barrel of his firearm to clear it of any loose plaster.

“Chokepoint defended sufficiently by Archangel,” Solus replied. “Psychological advantage is intact. Two human mercenaries more than enough.”

“You heard him, Gramps,” said Zaeed, pushing off the wall he had been comfortably leaning on. “Time to nut up or shut up.”

“What about you?” Jacob asked, as they set up positions near the door.

“Not always been a doctor,” replied Solus. “Spent time in Special Tasks Group; can handle myself. Advantage of being salarian.”

The doctor ghosted over to an overturned table and pulled a variety of devices out of his coat pockets. “Massani, former Blue Suns leader. Alliance-trained aethermancer. All obvious threats.” Solus gave a sharp inhale as he bunkered down. “ _Never see me coming_.”

 

* * *

 

Once the cloak went on, Garrus’s demeanor  _changed_. Shepard was never an expert on turian psychology - any more than she was an expert on any other race’s psychology - but she liked to think she knew her former crew. Back during the hunt for Saren Arterius, Garrus was often anxious and twitchy - which he mostly covered up with jokes and sarcasm, when he thought nobody would notice the difference - but in a fight he was calm, collected, and hyper-focused. He still quipped during combat, filling the air with one-liners and observations, but that never detracted from his lethal skills with a rifle.

Now, he was still focused, but there was nothing calm and collected about it. His stance was rigid, and his eyes were cold. Cold and  _angry_.

Just like when she met up with Tali, the familiarity was underscored with two years of growth, of distance.

It was enough to make her worried. This was not the Garrus she remembered.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell, and Garrus looked back at her. Shepard nodded; it was time to fight. She’d talk it out with him afterward - he likely had just as many questions for her as she had for him.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

If Garrus was startled by the question - a distinct shift in command since the last time they had worked together - he recovered quickly. “Lock down the maintenance tunnels. They blasted into the sewers, but anything closer would bring the building down on top of them, and they can’t guarantee the kill if they can’t clear the rubble.”

“Seems a bit precise for pirates,” said Shepard. “You’d think they’d leave it at that.”

“Tried it already,” Garrus responded. “Just before I bunkered down here, they brought my whole apartment down on top of me.”

Shepard leaned around the corner, checking to see if it was clear. “Looks like they got smarter, then.”

Silence answered her.

“Garrus?” she asked, turning back to nudge the turian into talking, but of Garrus Vakarian, there was no sign. He had disappeared.

 

* * *

 

The mental shift between Garrus Vakarian and Archangel was incredibly smooth these days. He supposed he should be worried about that, but worrying was a luxury that Archangel could not afford, and thus, neither could Garrus.

Both were happiest with long sight-lines and decisive actions. Both were agents of justice, not _order_. Both utilized the full military training that came with turian citizenship in new and creative ways.

That was where the overlap ended, however. The differences were growing by the day between Lance-Corporal Vakarian of the Citadel Constabulary, and Archangel, Scourge of Gateway Omega’s Underworld.

He couldn’t see Shepard’s face anymore, as he had disappeared into the cellar’s structural supports, but he could guess at her expression. Things had changed since he’d seen her last - for one thing, he’d attended her  _funeral_  - but for all that he had spent less than a year with the woman, she’d become a constant in his life. One that had been taken away, as war tends to do, but her example had been one he’d tried to follow in his actions since.

Until Omega. Until the pirate raid.

They were coming in from the sewers now, the rubble from the blast finally cleared enough to allow the trickling streams of swarming vorcha. Garrus risked a glance back and saw that Shepard, as he’d expected, had entrenched herself behind the doorway, using the cellar’s layout as a natural chokepoint.

Shepard could handle a few vorcha at a time. Archangel’s plans were always for far more… _strategic_  choices.

Sure enough, a pair of humans pushed their way in through the rubble, guns-first. The dust clung to their yellow-and-black leather jackets, muting the bright colors to something almost stealthy, if they were being hopeful about it, but Garrus knew what to watch for.

The Eclipse pirates flinched at Shepard’s staccato bursts of gunfire, but they rallied quickly, and moved to the other side of the cellar to clear the hole for more infiltrators.

The first human, helmet missing and sandy hair wild and unbrushed, turned to his partner. “What’s so special about this guy anyway?”

“Archangel?” said the other. “Don’t know, don’t care. Jaroth’s paying for a corpse, not introspection.”

“Yeah, I’m not complaining,” said the first pirate. “I’m just curious. All this for one turian? Why not just cough into his water supply?”

“That’s quarians,” said his partner.

There was a lull in conversation, as they each turned away from each other - ideally to cover any approach by foot. Neither of them, unfortunately, bothered to look up.

 

* * *

 

“Alright, I think we’re clear,” said the sandy-haired pirate. “We’ll make a push when there’s a break— Bill?” He turned around, and saw nothing where his partner should have been. “Bill, this isn’t funny.”

“Isn’t it?”

He spun back around to find a dark figure in front of him. The dim lighting played around the dark blue cloak, turning what would have clearly been identified as an average-height turian into a giant, amorphous shadow. There were only hints of a face in the darkened hood, but a pair of bright, glowing eyes stared directly back at him.

“Oh gods, oh gods, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die…”

It took him a moment that the wheezing mantra was coming from  _himself_.

“ **I’m going to make this very simple** ,” Archangel growled from  _less than a foot away_. “ **Garm, Jaroth, Santiago. Where are they?** ”

_ohgodsohgodsohgods_

“Jaroth went in the front!” the sandy-haired pirate wailed. “I don’t know about the others!”

“ **Santiago will be up there with him** ,” Archangel mused. “ **The weasel always makes sure there are plenty of expendable grunts between himself and the target. But what I really want to know is: Where. Is. Garm?** ”

A tridactyl hand balled up his jacket’s yellow collar in a fist and lifted him up off his feet.

“I don’t know!” wailed the pirate. “I swear to the gods, I don’t know!”

Archangel yanked him closer and stared with those furiously blazing eyes. “ _ **Swear to me!**_ ”

“He’s right here,” said a low, gravelly voice. The turian started to turn, but what felt like a freight train sent both Archangel and the pirate sailing into the far wall.

 

* * *

 

The assault on the main entrance was as relentless as it was sudden. It was as if the dam had broken, and the rest of the gathered mercenaries had decided on one final push. Do or die. Death or glory or even both at once.

As far as defensive positions went, however, there could not have been anywhere that was a better choice. Jacob took a moment while he ejected the spent coolant canister in his firearm and sized up the current wave of pirates. Most had been the Blue Suns heavies, the warriors with heavier armor and rapid-fire rifles. Jacob and Zaeed spaced out their shots accordingly, opting more for precision than sheer bullet saturation, and soon enough the flow of angry pirates was stemmed by the bodies of their more zealous compatriots, blocking the only entrance they had.

Jacob had flown over the skies of Torfan. He knew the dangers of urban combat more than anyone… save perhaps Zaeed, who had likely been a pirate for longer than Jacob had been alive. Or Mordin, who upon being questioned about his combat ability - especially for someone of his apparent age - had simply waved the concerns away with a derisive snort and a proclamation of “STG. Retired. Still have clearance.”

(And then there was Commander Shepard… but then again Commander Shepard had a lot of things under her belt that most soldiers wouldn’t have even faced in their entire careers, so that made her a statistical outlier, so Jacob didn’t count her.)

The point was, Jacob knew how much urban assaults sucked. It was refreshing, therefore, to be on the side that  _wasn’t_  hampered by impossible logistics.

Case in point, the narrow entrance. The clinic was reinforced on either side - the alley ended in the cliffside, which meant that any attempts to burrow through from that direction would have to be through kilometers of pure rock, and the business on the other side was a bank, which had plenty of built-in security already in the infrastructure. The tightness of the alleys also prevented their gunboat from providing anything more than long-range surveillance; if it tried to get into a position where its autocannons could fire into the building, it would lodge itself in brick and mortar.

“Looks like they’re changin’ it up a bit,” growled Zaeed, replacing his own coolant in a battered rifle.

Jacob risked a glance around his cover. “They’ve stopped,” he said, realizing that the sound of gunfire on both sides had ceased. “That’s not ominous at  _all_.”

“Eye of the bleedin’ storm,” Zaeed agreed. “If I know Vido Santiago, and I like to think I fuckin’ do, he’ll be pullin’ back to let the heavy lifters in.”

“Automatons,” Mordin Solus added helpfully. “Knauss-class at the least.  _Problematic_.”

“Fear’s not a factor with them,” said Zaeed, helpfully. “We need to charge ‘em.”

“What? No!” Jacob shouted, leaping out from behind his cover. “That’s crazy!”

“Direct assault unsuitable for defending stronghold,” Mordin pointed out. “Automaton siege warfare completely inefficient for this vector.”

“Nope, already stopped caring,” said Zaeed, jumping up and down twice, as if to psych himself up. He reached into his jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a spare coolant canister for his rifle, but with one major difference.

Specifically, Jacob could not remember coolant canisters having an arming pin in the top.

“We picked you up from a  _bar_ ,” Jacob pointed out. “I don’t remember stopping to  _pick up grenades_.”

“Plan D,” Zaeed said with a wink from his good eye. “Always carry protection, didn’t your mum ever teach you that?”

“My mother always told me that the kind of dates that I need a grenade for are the ones I need to avoid,” Jacob deadpanned. “How is charging them going to work?”

“A good ol’ Krogan Stomp never hurt anything,” Zaeed replied. “Besides, this old bastard’s got a few tricks up his sleeve. Trust in Uncle Zaeed, yeah?”

With that, he yanked the pin out with his teeth, yelled “ _Choke on this, you pack of bastards!_ ”, and threw the grenade as hard as he could out the clinic’s front door.

It was a perfect throw. Textbook, even, with a clearly-defined arc and a lazy spin that would put any other throws to shame.

Unfortunately for them, the pirates chose that moment to roll in a Knauss frame, which unfolded directly into the grenade’s path. It bounced once off the rising ferroceramic head, struck the splintered doorjamb which had been partially stripped from its mooring only hours before, and detonated in a spectacular burst of fire and shrapnel.

The shockwave caught Jacob unawares, and he was thrown back against the far wall.

 

* * *

 

Shepard took down the last of the vorcha and raced through the cellar to find the largest krogan she had ever seen standing over Garrus. As she levelled her weapon at the krogan’s head, he reached down and almost casually lifted the unconscious turian by his neck.

“Drop him,” she ordered, advancing slowly but steadily. She levied her best Commander tone into the order, making it not a demand, but rather a simple and firm statement of how things were going to go.

The krogan flicked an eye towards her. After a quick second to size her up, he swung Garrus around to shield himself from any potential gunfire. Shepard’s estimation of the krogan immediately rose - as did her frustration.

“Walk away, human,” said the krogan. “My quarrel is with Archangel; I don’t really care about you.”

“Not going to do that,” Shepard responded. Her hands remained steady as she waited for an opening. Krogan were hard to kill with a sidearm as it was, but the dried and mostly-healed bullet wounds on his face told her this was Garm the Clanless - even the heavily-modified handgun that Miranda had given her would likely take the entire canister of coolant to mildly inconvenience him, but there were certainly vulnerabilities to take advantage of. There had to be. “Drop the turian and you can leave. I won’t ask again.”

“Not going to do that,” Garm echoed. “Now, I know all about you humans and your sense of honor. Archangel’s clearly your friend, and you wouldn’t risk shooting him to get to me. Whereas I don’t give two shits about—”

Shepard pulled the trigger, sending a spin-sealed aether bullet directly into Garm’s left eye.

“You talk too much,” she said, advancing on the krogan as he roared in pain. “You’ve got my friend. I’ve got better aim than you think. Shall we take this to its logical conclusion?”

Garm roared again and hurled Garrus at her. Shepard threw herself backwards, blunting the turian’s impact somewhat, and the two of them tumbled to a halt at the base of the stairs.

“Spirits, Garrus,” Shepard grunted, attempting to extricate herself from the tangle of limbs, “what have you been eating the last two years?”

“Nnn, quit whining and use your zombie strength,” Garrus groaned. The impact must have shocked him back into consciousness. His voice was as sluggish as his movements, and he was barely able to roll off of Shepard under his own power.

The sound of a charging krogan drew Shepard’s attention back to the fight, and she whirled around to bring her weapon to bear… only to find that her hand was empty.

“ _Rrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!_ ” screamed Garm, bearing down on them as fast as his feet could carry him - which, despite most people’s preconceptions of krogan being lumbering and bulky, was pretty damned fast. Shepard barely had time to roll out of the way.

Garrus, however, threw himself directly in the path of four hundred pounds of homicidal rage, rooting his stance and bodychecking Garm into the wall as he passed. The walls shook at the impact, but Garm recovered quickly - reaching out his hand to grab Garrus by the fringe and plowing his face straight into the brick wall beside him.

There was a sickening cartilaginous  _snap_  and a hiss of pain.

“Game’s over, Archangel,” Garm crowed. “Unless you have another trick up your sleeve.”

Garrus brought his hand up, and Shepard could see her firearm clenched in his grip, its barrel pressed against the underside of Garm’s jaw.

One shot. Garm’s grip loosened slightly, but he continued to roar in pain and fury.

Two shots. The krogan’s great fist unclenched, and Garm and Garrus both slumped against the wall.

Garrus sucked in a deep breath, rubbing his throat. “Just the one,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Let’s go, Garrus,” said Shepard, getting to her feet and walking unsteadily towards him. “They probably need us upstairs.”

Garrus glared down at the krogan and levelled the gun at bulbous, bloodshot-orange eyes. “I’ll be up in a minute,” he said. His right mandible didn’t move in time with the left; Shepard could see it was bent at an odd angle.

Shepard didn’t like the gleam in his eye. “Let it go,” she said. “He’s taken three bullets to the brain. He’s down.”

Without ceremony, Garrus fired a third shot. The krogan twitched and lay still.

“He is now,” Garrus announced, turning and heading up the stairs. 

 

* * *

 

The dust cleared, and Jacob’s consciousness reluctantly returned. The entranceway was a bit wider than he remembered, and the ensuing rubble was strewn all about the foyer. Gateway Omega’s red-tinged streetlights filtered in through the craggy hole in the side of the building, dankly illuminating one shifting pile of debris in particular.

“Fuck this,” growled Zaeed’s voice from within the rubble, as he shoved the detritus of his grenade’s unfortunately-timed rebound off himself. He grabbed his rifle from where it had embedded itself in the wall, and with a grunt of effort, yanked it free. “The hard way, then.”

Jacob rose to follow, but there was considerably more debris pinning him down. His right arm in particular was trapped, and as hard as he pulled, he couldn’t get it free. He started kicking away the chunks of plaster from around his feet, searching for whatever leverage he could take.

“Right, you bastards,” Zaeed shouted, strolling almost casually into the streets. Beyond him, Jacob could see the flash of dozens of weapons as they were raised to meet him. “It’s time to play a game called Uncle Zaeed Is Pissed Right The Hell Off. Do you want to know the rules?”

There was a panicked silence.

“The rules are, I ask a question. Someone - and I don’t bloody well care who - gives me an answer. That answer will determine who gets to continue on to the final round.”

“ _Ohgods, Zaeed Massani’s back from the dead!_ ”

Jacob’s boots finally found purchase. Trying to pull his arm out of whatever held it almost wrenched his shoulder out of its socket.

“Yeah, right, close enough,” Zaeed said, amicably. He reached up with the hand not currently holding his rifle, and… lit a cigar? “Does everyone understand the rules?”

“Alright, screw this,” Jacob muttered, deciding to do things The Massani Way. With a groan that audibly distorted as he flared his aethermancy, he bent the laws of reality and ripped his arm out of the rubble. Coils of steel chain clattered to the ground, still wrapped around his wrist, the links at the end warped and shattered from the strain. Keeping his aethermancy primed, he shoved himself to his feet and strode out to join Zaeed.

“ _Ohgods, Zaeed Massani’s back from the dead and he brought a vengeful ghost with him!_ ”

Jacob risked a glance down at himself, freshly illuminated from the street lights. He was, once again, covered from head to toe in white plaster dust, but this time he was also dragging the length of chain behind him, while covered in a blue-green aether-charged glow.

He rolled his eyes - which, from past experience with his powers, were also glowing with aethermancy - and decided to just go with it. “Boo, motherfuckers,” he deadpanned, giving the chain a half-hearted rattle.

Almost as one man, the cadre of Blue Suns pirates dropped their weapons to the ground.

“That’s right,” said Zaeed, not even missing a beat. “Everyone’s on the same goddamn page. I ask the question. You answer it. You know who I am, and you know what I’ll do to you if you don’t. And afterwards, the swagman over here will make sure your billies are well and truly boiled.”

Jacob blinked as he tried to work out what Zaeed had just said. He gave up and settled on a half-hearted growl while he jangled the chains.

One of the younger pirates fainted dead away. The vorcha started twitching in his direction, but stopped when Zaeed turned his rifle in their direction.

“That’s right,” Zaeed repeated. “So here’s the question. Where is Vido Santiago?”

“You’re a fucking lunatic,” cried a voice from the rear of the mob. “How many times do I have to shoot you until you stay dead?”

“And would you bleedin’ credit it, the man himself!” cried Zaeed, joyfully. “Step up, you backstabbing piece of shit, let us get a look at you.”

When nobody moved, Zaeed sighed and pulled another grenade off his belt.

The crowd immediately parted, revealing one dark-haired man in a blue leather jacket. His face was a picture of terror and betrayal, the expression of someone thrown head-first into a pack of hungry varren while wearing a necklace of freshly-cut steaks.

“I ain’t even mad, Vido,” growled Zaeed, returning the grenade to his belt and raising his rifle. “I’m just goddamned disappointed. I thought I taught you better than that.”

“You’re a washed-up has-been!” shouted Vido Santiago, in what Jacob felt was a fairly decent attempt at public suicide. He grabbed the only weapon he had left - a wicked-looking knife that glinted evilly in the red streetlights - and charged.

Zaeed moved faster than Jacob could see - faster even than Solus had - and suddenly Vido was flat on his back, with one of Zaeed’s boots pressed against his chest and the barrel of his gun pointed directly at his face. Jacob hadn’t even taken a  _step_ , it was over so quickly.

(For that matter, where was Solus? Either laying low in the rubble, Jacob figured, or else was somewhere hidden, waiting for a moment to strike.)

“You learned at least one thing since the last time I saw you,” said Zaeed, thumbing the safety off with an audible click. Which didn’t surprise Jacob in the slightest; Zaeed seemed exactly the kind of person to specifically leave the safety on with the full intention of making sure someone saw him switching it off. “Lesson One: If you’re gonna stab a bloke in the back, do it to his face. But you seem to have forgotten Lesson Two.”

The gunshot was all the more terrible for the deathly silence that had fallen over the crowd of pirates encircling them.

“If you’re going to shoot someone in the face, make sure he’s well and proper dead before leaving.” Zaeed shot him again to punctuate his statement.

“You survived getting shot in the  _face_?” Jacob asked, incredulously.

Zaeed turned his head, presenting the best view of the deep scar and glass eye. “Rage is one hell of an anaesthetic,” he said, before letting out a quick bark of laughter. “I was lying just then, by the way, about not even being angry. In case you missed that.”

“No, I got it,” said Jacob.

“Because I’ve always been angry,” Zaeed continued.

“Yes, I caught that.”

“On account of him shooting me in the face.”

“Oh my god.”

 

* * *

 

It was later. Confusion had happened.

Shepard and Garrus emerged from the basement, a bit battered and broken but both were alive and well. They surveyed the wreckage with expressions that read “well, at least it wasn’t me this time”.

Zaeed had somehow managed, through the medium of shouting, to disperse the crowd of pirates and secure them all safe passage out of the Gozu District. His own personal objective met, the old mercenary strutted along behind them with a fresh cigar and a shiny new pistol - a trophy pulled off the otherwise abandoned body of Vido Santiago.

Solus was nowhere to be found. A quick sweep of the remains of the clinic turned up nothing but a cleaned-out file cabinet. “He’ll turn up,” Garrus had said as they checked over the remains of his laboratory, covered in plaster dust.

Garrus still worried her, though. He’d wrapped up his broken mandible, which would suffice until they made it to the Citadel and got him to a real doctor, who would probably have to break it again to reset it. If the pain was getting to him, though, he wasn’t showing it. He was sullen and moody the entire walk back.

By the time they made it to Omega’s promenade, Shepard couldn’t take it anymore. “You okay?” she asked, glancing up at the turian who had, in her previous life, become her closest friend.

Garrus sighed. “Been better,” he said, eventually. “But it sure is good to see a friendly face. Killing mercs is hard work. Especially on my own.”

Shepard raised an eyebrow. “You almost nailed me a couple times, by the way.”

“I had to make it look good, or the pirates would get suspicious.”

“Uh huh.”

Garrus twitched his unbroken mandible in amusement. “If I wanted to do more than cover you in shoddy building materials, I’d have done it.”

Shepard just glared.

“Besides,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders in a particularly human gesture, “you were taking your sweet time. I had to get you moving.”

“There’s a difference between not wanting to break my cover and almost taking my ear off,” Shepard said. “Besides, with the three pirate…groups…”

Garrus stopped walking as Shepard trailed off. He had apparently come to the same conclusion at the same time. “Santiago,” he said, holding up his hand and counting. “Garm.”

As if on cue, something tugged at Shepard’s shoulder, pushing her forward and spinning her around. She used the momentum of the spin and drew her weapon in one fluid move, bringing it to bear on the charging salarian, who fired wildly as he ran.

“Archangeeeel!” screamed the salarian as he advanced.

Shepard’s shoulder flared with pain as the aether bullet burst into flame. Her shots went wild.

Almost as suddenly as he had appeared, the salarian fell. Shepard glanced at her compatriots, but Garrus was still fumbling with his rifle, and Jacob and Zaeed had thrown themselves to the ground and were currently bringing their weapons to bear.

The salarian hit the ground with an almost apologetic  _thunk_ , revealing Mordin Solus standing behind him, his shoulder-mounted multitool array covered in something viscous and green.

“Jaroth,” said Solus, prodding the body with his boot as he reached up and cleaned off the functional ends of his multitool. “Eclipse leadership. Withdrew from firefight under cover of explosion, and confusion, taking advantage of clear logistical oversight.”

He took a sharp breath through his nose. “Oversight has now been corrected.”

Shepard breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s that, then.”

Solus shook his head, and his multitool array collapsed back against his shoulders. “Pirate incursion dealt with, true. Concerned more of Lazarus implications. Would like to discuss in private.”

Shepard thought back to the many corpses in the shattered clinic. The simple act of opening a free clinic in one of the worst parts of Gateway Omega. The fact that Garrus had trusted him enough to go into hiding there, and barring that, bunker down for a last stand.

“Couldn’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes on the issue,” she said. “Come back to the Normandy with us, I’ll introduce you to the team and you can take a look at my file.”

She glanced back at Garrus, who was unbuckling his cloak. “Garrus?”

“Just thinking that maybe Archangel should stay dead,” he said. He held the cloak up to the streetlamps to give Shepard a better look at it. It was tattered, torn, and blackened in parts that looked suspiciously like burn marks. “A whole year in this place and it doesn’t even look like I made a difference does it?”

“You took down the leaders of the three biggest pirate crews of the Terminus,” Shepard pointed out. “I was there, remember?”

“Local figureheads,” Garrus said. “They’ll be replaced in a week. No, Archangel was a symbol, and his time has passed. Time to let it go.” Putting action to his words, he opened his hand, and the cloak slipped over the side of the bridge, falling to spirits-only-knew-where.

“You want to talk about it?” Shepard asked.

Garrus shook his head. “Not right now. Maybe later, after I’ve gotten a hot shower and can talk to you without my face feeling like it will split apart any second.” He gestured towards the docks, in a not-so-subtle attempt to change the subject. “I’d rather hear about what’s so important to bring you back from the dead.” 

 

* * *

 

A hand darted out and grabbed the tattered blue cloak from where it landed.

Had she heard that right? Archangel gone? After all the good he had done for Gateway Omega? People were starting to feel comfortable leaving their apartments after dark again. Vorcha maulings were markedly down, and pirates weren’t going door to door looking for protection money anymore.  
  
Archangel was a symbol of hope, a light in the darkness. The spray-painted wings were a line in the sand against crime and assault, and everyone knew it.  
  
Archangel gone? _That could not stand_.

“Nyreen? Nyreen, where did you go?”

The girl quickly stuffed the cloak in her bag. “Coming!”  
  
An asari poked her head around the corner. “What are you even doing back here?”  
  
“I thought I saw something interesting,” said Nyreen, heading back out to the street. “Wanted to take a look.”  
  
The asari shook her head in disbelief. “You’re going to be the death of me, Nyreen. What was worth giving me a heart attack, anyway?”  
  
“Nothing!”  
  
“Come on, let me see?” Blue hands darted in and pulled out the cloak. “Eurgh, it’s disgusting. Throw it away!”  
  
“It might be important,” Nyreen argued. “You never know.”  
  
“Pff, no. You don’t look good in blue, anyway.” The asari tossed the cloak over her shoulder. “Red’s more your color.”  
  
Nyreen shrugged, and left the cloak where it was. Symbols could be changed, she supposed. But she already had ideas running through her head.  
  
After all, there must always be an Archangel. 


	6. For The Love Of Science

The worst part of the tank was the noise.

The Phase Two facility was state-of-the-art, with the latest advances in aethertech devices and a research budget that could beggar an entire kingdom. It was fully-staffed, well-kept, and fully self-contained, because everyone knew the best science was the kind you kept secret.

But none of that really made up for the noise.

For the last three weeks, the inside of the tank had been subjected to constant abuse. Banging, scratching - whatever Subject Two was capable of at the time, it happened.

“I apologise for the state of the facility,” Dr. Archer said quickly as he unlocked the doors to the main lab. “There was another breakthrough and the boys and I had to pull an all-nighter to account for it.”

“Quite understandable, Doctor. I take it the project is exceeding original projections?”

Archer blinked. “By a large degree, sir, absolutely. We’ve had to revise our timetable thrice already, and if what we saw last night holds up, the subject will be ready for final discharge far sooner than we thought.”

The other lab techs nodded from their stations, eager to prove themselves to the big boss. It wasn’t often that Jack Harper himself came by the individual facilities, after all.

Harper reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a cigarette. “Have you fully integrated the data from Lawson’s cell yet?”

Archer nodded, eyeing the cigarette warily. “Projections are beyond even what Lazarus reported,” he said. “The genetic reconstruction in particular had us excited for weeks. Isn’t that right, David?”

This last was directed towards a wiry young man huddled over a stack of paperwork in the corner, who did not respond to the question.

“David?” repeated Archer. “David, I’m talking to you.”

David looked up and saw the two men staring at him. “Smoking is prohibited within thirty meters of the facility,” he said, his voice hesitant and halting. His eyes darted about quickly, assessing and discarding subjects for his attention, trying to see everything and everyone all at once.

Archer pretended he wasn’t having a miniature heart attack right there in the lab. “David, this is Mr. Harper, our chief benefactor. Come say hello, please.”

David returned his attention to his papers, almost trying to hide from the attention. “Facility regulations are important,” he said, hunching himself deeper down in his chair as he worked. “Thirty meters. Ninety-eight point four two five two feet. One thousand–”

“Yes, yes, thank you, David,” said Archer, hurriedly. He glanced nervously at Harper, who was even now putting the cigarette back in its case. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. David is…” He hesitated, trying to find the right words.

“Perfectly justified in his request,” said Harper, giving Archer a comforting smile. “Safety rules were put in place for a reason, after all. We can’t blame your brother for adhering to them. Especially at such a crucial stage of the project.”

Archer sighed in relief. “Yes, sir.” He took a second to collect himself, and pushed onward. “As I was saying, David here is currently comparing the Lazarus notes with our current sample, and the last few days have been _very_ exciting.”

“Cellular regeneration is expected to finish thirty point two percent ahead of initial projections,” said David from his desk, still not looking up. “Memory reconstitution will proceed immediately afterwards.”

Harper nodded. “Keep me updated, Doctor,” he said, turning to study the tank for a moment. “I want to know the moment you’re ready to release.”

“Yes, sir,” said Archer.

Harper turned to the door and pulled out his cigarette case again. “Don’t look so glum, Archer,” he said, on his way outside. “I’m only asking for a miracle of science.”

It was only later, when the screeching started back up, that Archer realized that the tank had been silent for the entirety of Harper’s visit.

 

* * *

 **Chapter 6:**  
**In The Name Of Science**

* * *

 

The _Normandy_ left its berth at Gateway Omega heavier than it had arrived, though the power of its engines compensated for this almost effortlessly. The sleek ship rose into the sky, leaving the impossible island behind, and set off towards the sunrise.

Shepard looked over the haul appreciatively. Miranda had been busy, it appeared, and the _Normandy_ was swiftly approaching combat-ready.

The formerly-Cerberus crew were loading the cannons under Garrus Vakarian’s watchful eye – and broken mandible, Shepard reminded herself. They would have to stop by a medical station when they reached the Citadel. Doctor Solus had done what he could with the limited supplies on the ship, and had entrenched himself in a cabin belowdecks that he was slowly converting into a research lab, but nothing beat an actual hospital for major injuries.

On a positive note, Geoffrey had seized on this opportunity to lighten the mood by imitating Garrus’s temporarily hindered speech every chance he got. This was, Shepard noted, also the negative note.

“ _Fyftemf all report normal, Fephard_ ,” the helmsman reported cheerfully through EDI’s terminal in the cargo hold.

“Knock it off, Moreau,” Shepard said as she counted the crates against the manifest Miranda handed her when they boarded. “It wasn’t funny the first time.”

“ _See now, that’s the kind of judgment call that makes me question this whole suicide mission thing_ ,” said Geoffrey. “ _If you’re so blatantly wrong about this, what else do I have to worry about?_ ”

Shepard ticked the last crate off the manifest and handed it back to Miranda. “I can think of plenty of things for you to worry about. Should I make that a priority?”

There was a brief hesitation. “ _Course is set for the Citadel, Commander_.”

“Well done. Shepard out.”

EDI’s aperture retracted into its terminal without any fanfare.

“I still don’t understand why you put up with his insubordination,” Miranda groused. “Any Cerberus commander would have had him up for disciplinary by now.”

“Any Cerberus commander would have gotten him killed in some sort of ill-informed black-ops mission or as a casualty when their science projects broke loose and took over the ship,” Shepard countered.

Miranda, to her credit, did not take the bait. Shepard’s respect for her jumped upwards a few notches. “He’s crass and argumentative,” Miranda argued.

“He outflew the tentacles of a vengeful death god from creation,” said Shepard, with finality. “He’s earned a little leeway.”

“If you say so, Commander.” Miranda ran her fingers through her hair, before straightening her posture. “There’s one more parcel for you to inspect, if you have time.” She pointed out a smaller box that was sitting on a table, separate from the crates of equipment, rations, and ammunition piled up in the center of the hold.

Shepard opened the box and blinked. “Miranda.”

“It’s your size, Shepard. I checked three times.”

Shepard pulled out a leather and canvas jacket that, although not part of any sort of military uniform that existed in the world, would not necessarily look out of place. The boiled leather was tough and protective, with a wire mesh underlay, and dyed a shade of black halfway between charcoal and midnight - dark enough to blend in the shadows, but not so deep that it would stand out on its own.

The black was accented along the right arm, however, by a deep red stripe, the leather panels stitched in so seamlessly that the only difference between the stripe and the rest of the sleeve was the color itself.

Folded in the box underneath the jacket was a pair of trousers, of similar leather and canvas material and color, though without the stripe. A pair of black, steel-toed boots completed the ensemble.

Shepard looked up at Miranda gratefully. “How the hell did you get this done in six hours?” she asked.

Miranda waved the question off. “I was trained to be the best there is at what I do. This is what comes of that.”

Shepard nodded and grabbed the box. “I’ll be back shortly, then. I’m out of uniform.”

When she emerged from her cabin a few minutes later, she felt like an entirely new woman. Miranda had really gone the extra mile here - the jacket fit her shoulders perfectly, and Shepard left it open for the moment. The boots were snug but not tight, and she felt that once they’d been properly broken in, they’d be like a second skin on her. The most important part, however, was the fact that while it was not out of place in any civilian environment, it made her feel like she was wearing her uniform again.

For the first time since waking up in that lab, Shepard felt _right_.

It was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a weight she hadn’t even known was there. She was standing straighter, walking more confidently. She felt comfortable in her skin, even if she still wasn’t sure if it was entirely _her_ skin. For the first time since waking up, she found that she didn’t care.

Her path turned from a simple walk around the ship to almost one of her old duty inspections, and the crew noticed it. They weren’t standing at full military attention as she passed - this was still technically a civilian ship - but backs were a bit straighter, nods were exchanged.

Shepard was _back_.

She finished her patrol of the crew deck and paused at the open doorway to the unused gunnery station towards the bow. It was a curious enough sight that she stopped and leaned against the wall.

Half a turian was sticking out of an open maintenance panel, accompanied by the muffled hisses and clicks that she recognized as muttered curses.

She cleared her throat, loudly. “Vakarian.”

There was a dull _thunk_ , and a quiet “Ow.” Then, carefully avoiding catching his fringe on the way out, Garrus emerged from the panel. “Captain on deck?”

“More or less,” Shepard agreed, crossing her arms. “You’re supposed to be resting until we get to a proper hospital.”

“And you’re supposed to be dead,” Garrus said, turning around. He gave her outfit an approving glance. “That’s more like it. You really weren’t pulling off the ‘Escaped Convict’ look at all.”

“I’ll make certain to ask for fancier clothes the next time I escape a Cerberus facility,” Shepard deadpanned.

“That’s what the people respect about you, Shepard,” Garrus agreed. “Your quick grasp of priorities.”

Shepard grinned at him, appreciating how quickly they fell back into comfortable sarcasm. Garrus may not be her oldest friend, but he quickly became her closest one. And like when they had picked up Geoffrey, the _Normandy_ was rapidly shifting from a ship to a home.

Home was where your family lived, after all.

“How’s your face?” she asked.

“Healing,” said Garrus, “but don’t make me laugh, it’s barely holding together as it is.”

Shepard nodded. Garrus’s mandible was almost fully wrapped in gauze, and while his consonants might have been a little fuzzy, he wasn’t lisping nearly as much as Geoffrey made it out to be. “We’ll get you patched up as soon as we make it to the Citadel,” she reminded him. “You can poke around the inside of my ship later.”

“I’ve already seen what I need to see,” Garrus grumbled. “Who do I need to drop off a cliff for installing half of a spinal rail cannon?”

“Cerberus,” Shepard said.

Garrus shook his head in dismay, another particularly human gesture she knew he had picked up from his time on the first _Normandy_. “I thought we took care of them already.”

“Not nearly as well as we thought,” Shepard growled. “They’re up to their same old tricks.”

Garrus’s unmangled mandible twitched in amusement. “Corrupting the rules of nature and creating some unholy abomination to the spirits, which then breaks loose, kills all their scientists, and takes over the ship?”

Shepard glared at him. “I haven’t killed any scientists.”

“And that’s a damned shame, after what they did - or rather, what they _didn’t_ do - with all…” Garrus trailed off, mutely waving his arms at the open maintenance hatch for a moment. “All _this_ ,” he finished, lamely.

Shepard walked over and peeked inside. “There’s nothing there.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Garrus said, triumphantly. “ _Thank_ you. A perfectly reinforced aethertech rail tube, without the actual rails? Shepard, do you have any idea what I could do with this?”

“I don’t know,” Shepard replied, straightening back up and closing the hatch. “Will it be expensive?”

Garrus nodded happily. “Oh, beyond a doubt.”

“Wait until I get reinstated as a Spectre, then,” said Shepard. “Miranda wiped out whatever funds we had stocking up at Gateway Omega, and I’m _pretty_ sure those ‘funds’ were from her personal accounts.” She frowned, thinking. “EDI, remind me to get that invoice from her. Maybe I can submit it through requisitions and pay her back.”

“ _Of course, Commander_ ,” EDI said, her interface rising out of the control box on the wall.

Garrus twitched. “And thaaaat’s not the most worrisome addition from Cerberus ever.”

EDI’s aperture rotated to face Garrus. “ _I assure you, Lance-Corporal Vakarian, I am no more of a corrupted unholy abomination to the spirits than Commander Shepard._ ”

Garrus blinked.

“She does that,” Shepard said, unhelpfully.

“Riiiiight.”

“ _Shall I inform Ms. Lawson?_ ” EDI asked, swiveling her camera back to focus on Shepard.

Shepard paused. “…no, best to make sure I’m actually going to be reinstated first before promising anything.”

“ _Understood. Logging you out._ ”

“Don’t start,” Shepard warned as Garrus inspected EDI’s interface box. “She came with the ship, and she’s pulling her weight.”

“I just spent six months moonlighting as a vigilante in a pirate’s den,” Garrus countered. “Not even counting the whole Saren thing. I kind of expect non-standard to be your standard at this point.”

He kept glancing furtively at the maintenance hatch.

Shepard sighed. “Put together a proposal, but _get some rest_ , alright? If I’m going to be walking directly into hell, I need you at my side.”

“You realize this plan has me walking into hell too, right?” Garrus asked, wryly.

“Is that a problem?”

Garrus twitched his mandible in a half grin. “Absolutely not. It’ll be just like old times.”

 

* * *

 

Floating at the very edges of the Central Expanse, only a few kilometers from the storm barrier separating it from the Heavenly Reaches, the Grand Citadel was a technological marvel. A sprawling city-state, the Citadel did not rest upon an island or a continental landmass, but rather remained aloft and geographically precise through its own aethertech drive cores. Its discovery was the turning point for every civilization in the world, sparking research and innovation to first reverse-engineer and then create new technologies to match.

Its Lutece Field Generator was said to be so precise that it never wavered a centimeter in the sky, no matter how much it was built upon or how many ships docked with it.

It was a geometrical miracle, its five branching arms perfectly equidistant and pointing towards major constellations in the night sky.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” said Shepard, standing at the helm.

Beside her, Geoffrey Moreau carefully navigated the slipstreams and the increased traffic for the final approach to the civilian docks. “I hear that’s what happens when you kill a giant squid god,” he said, casually making a rude gesture towards a freighter that cut in front. “The rest of the world just doesn’t compare anymore.”

Shepard shook her head, refusing to rise to the bait. “No, I mean right there, Teysiri Ward. Half the arm’s still gone.” She pointed out a section in one of the five branching arms of the Citadel - the metal supports were still warped and torn, and construction crews were crawling over skeletal building frames in various districts.

“One of Nazara’s talons went right through the medical district,” Miranda said, strolling onto the bridge. “All construction was halted for six months while the Council decided what to do with it.”

“Gotta love beaurocracy,” said Geoffrey. He eased the ship into the Zakera Ward docks and selected a berth. “Aside from assassination, the most common cause of death is autoerotically asphyxiating themselves with red tape.”

“That’s not even a thing,” Shepard said automatically.

Geoffrey waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’ve got twenty that says it is.”

“ _Actually, in 2146, the Councillor from Palaven was found–_ ”

“Thank you, EDI,” Shepard said quickly.

The bridge was mercilessly silent for a few minutes while docking crews secured the _Normandy_. There was a quiet _kerchunk_ that softly rocked the ship as the gangplank was set.

“You ready for this?” Geoffrey asked Shepard, his voice tinged with concern.

“Not a bit,” said Shepard. She ran her fingers through her hair to settle her nerves. It didn’t work. “Going to do it anyway.”

“Hey, who knows, maybe there will be a geth attack and you’ll be able to skip right to being the hero again.”

“Because that worked out so well for me last time,” Shepard groused. “I’m going, I’m going. EDI, mind the ship, and notify me as soon as Garrus gets back from the hospital.”

 

* * *

 

The streets of the Citadel’s Presidium were a lot different than Shepard remembered. Structurally, of course, it was exactly how it always had been - pillars of crystal and steel lining the pathways, large swaths of grass in aesthetically-pleasing locations, and an artificial river lazily flowing in a circle around the Spire.

No, what had changed was the attitude. Two years ago, the Presidium had been quiet and serene. Patrolled occasionally by clean-cut members of the Citadel’s Constabulary, it was otherwise left to its own devices. Businesses operated in the open, children played on the lawns, and a soft music filtered in from hidden speakers.

It was still quiet, but it was a hush brought about from anxiety and tension, rather than comfort and peace. The Constabulary patrolled the streets in shorter intervals, Shepard saw, actively securing the streets instead of the token non-threatening show of protection. Parents kept a close hold on their children as they made their way to and from the shops, which themselves had security cages and locked doors installed in their entryways.

The music still played, the same music that Shepard remembered from Before, but it seemed almost guiltily artificial and echoed uncomfortably across the open spaces.

“Gods,” Shepard muttered. “What the hell happened while I was gone?”

“You know how we were scanned for geth on the way in?” Jacob asked, sticking close to her side. He eyeballed a hanar as it putted past - to its credit, the hanar kept its appendages tucked into its hover ring in a show of non-aggression.

“Yeah.”

Jacob nodded to punctuate his point. “Geth. You know how hard it is to keep them out once they make their way in somewhere. All it takes is a few units.”

Miranda sighed from Shepard’s other flank. “There was also a batarian pirate raid a year ago that made it past the fleets. Security’s been tightened across the board.”

Shepard shook her head as they made it to the primary entrance to the Spire. “Well, hopefully we’ll be able to do something about that soon.” She nodded at the asari receptionist. “Special Tactics and Reconnaissance, please. Personnel department.”

The asari tapped at her console and grimaced. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “but Councilor Tevos is in a meeting with the Spectre office. I can make an appointment for you next Wednesday?”

Shepard sighed. “Alright, I’ll deal with that later. Can you tell me if Councilor Anderson is available?”

The asari shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes carefully on Shepard. “I’m sorry, but Councilor Anderson abdicated his seat last year. Would you like me to forward your request to the Kingdoms Alliance military representative?”

“No,” Shepard started, but stopped. “Well, yes, but not right now. Who is the current human representative for the Council?”

“That would be Domnhall–”

“Udina,” Shepard chorused. “Well, there goes that plan.” She turned back to her two current companions and ran her fingers through her hair. “Udina barely gave me the time of day before I died. He’s not going to be interested in putting my case before the Council now.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Miranda, frowning. “Udina’s a bit conservative, but his heart is in the right place.”

Shepard shook her head. “Does the term ‘political shitstorm’ mean anything to you? I’m a Cerberus science project, and legally a non-person. Harper wasn’t lying, I don’t have the same kind of basic rights that the rest of you have.”

“But surely he can overturn–”

“Shepard’s right,” Jacob said, interrupting. “Udina’s a civilian, he looks out for civilian interests. We’d do a lot better if it was Anderson back in there.”

They started walking down the footpath through the Presidium, heading for their next destination. The walkways were still fairly empty, but even as they walked, insectoid Keepers emerged from their hives to tend the gardens.

“Where is he, anyway? Last I saw him, he was back there.” Shepard jerked her head back towards the Spire.

Jacob shrugged. “Anderson? He ghosted not too long ago.”

“Five and a half months, specifically,” Miranda added. “It was kept quiet, but the timeline coincides with the induction of the next human Spectres.”

“Next?” Shepard asked, raising her eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“Hey,” said Jacob, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “A lot of people looked up to you. You paved the way for a lot of bright young special forces recruits.”

Shepard sighed. She was going to have to get used to this, whether she wanted to or not. “Speaking of paving the way, where are we heading next?”

Miranda pulled a notebook out of her pack and flipped pages. “University of Havenshire has a branch here. There’s a professor I’d like to talk to and get on board.”

“What kind of professor?” Shepard asked, warily. It wasn’t that she didn’t like civilians, but military operations and civilian specialists tended to clash. Having someone like Solus on board was one thing - the salarian was a retired Special Forces commando himself, and knew how protocol and procedures worked. An educator, on the other hand, was a complete unknown.

“He’s a specialist in aetherdynamic physics,” said Miranda, continuing to flip through her pages. “He submitted a proposal to both Spectre R&D and the Alliance Fleet that he says would ‘entirely redesign the nature of aethertech defensive solutions and permanently’…” She trailed off. “He goes on for a while.”

“I heard about those,” Jacob said. “There were a couple of his designs that went through Whitefall. They looked promising, but the brass shot them down.” At Shepard’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Too expensive to implement. It was more trouble than it was worth for an individual basis, and mass-production would require an entire overhaul of the infrastructure.”

“Cerberus earmarked him for recruitment, but he never returned our calls,” Miranda finished. “We kept an eye on him, regardless.”

“And it has absolutely nothing to do with the reputation Cerberus has of minimum-security research bases,” Shepard said, her voice dripping with irony.

Miranda huffed. “I’d like to remind you that I’m now just as much a member of Cerberus as you are.”

“That’s a relief,” Shepard deadpanned. “So where’s the copyright paperwork they have on you?”

Miranda twitched almost imperceptibly. “Do you want my help, or are we to continue needling me about my previous employers? I draw your attention to the word ‘ _previous_ ’.”

Jacob shook his head, chuckling. “If Moreau’s any indication, Miranda, the two are never going to be mutually exclusive. Not on _that_ ship.”

“Tell me why I’m doing this again?”

“Fortune? Glory? Near certain death?”

“I can promise you one out of the three,” Shepard said, as they reached the university plaza. “That’s better than you’ll get with Cerberus.”

“Unfortunate.” Miranda flipped through her notebook again and compared it to the directory on the wall of the building. “Here we go, third story lecture hall. He should be finishing up his last class of the semester right about now.”

As they got closer to the lecture hall, the sounds from inside echoing through the halls, Shepard frowned. Something was very familiar about that voice.

“Miranda,” she said, resting her fingers on the handle, “what did you say this professor’s name was?”

The voice inside stopped.

“That would be a Doctor C. Verner,” said Miranda, taking the other door and pulling it open. “Highly respected in his field–”

“Verner? As in _Conrad_ Verner?” Shepard pulled her hand away as if the brass had burned her.

Inside the lecture hall, there was a great _thud_ of a book dropped from just about podium height.

“That’s right,” said Miranda, turning to the spot that Shepard had just vacated.

It wasn’t too late, Shepard thought. Not too late to make a hasty retrea–

The sound of footsteps running up stairs grew louder, and a short, blond head poked out of the door of the lecture hall. The man was red in the face and painfully out of breath, but he when he opened his mouth, the words came almost as quickly has he could suck in air.

“Shepard? _Shepard_? Is that you? I thought you were _dead_!”

Shepard slowly pivoted on her heel. Shit.

She forced a grin onto her face. “Hello, Conrad!”

She shouldn’t have bothered. If there was anything she remembered about Conrad Verner, it was his extraordinary ability to simply not see anything that didn’t fit his worldview. “What are you doing alive? We listened to your funeral! What are you doing _here_?”

“Don’t you have a class to teach, man?” asked Jacob, poking his head into the doorway.

Conrad shuffled out of the way. “No, midterms were yesterday. Nobody even bothered to show up today.” He beamed at Shepard - she would later insist that light seemed to reflect off his teeth in that terrible grin of his. “What can I do you for?”

Miranda reached into her pack and pulled out a small stack of forms. They were the same forms that she had given to Garrus and Dr. Solus when they came on-board the _Normandy_. “Doctor Verner, we understand you have a number of prototype aethertech devices–”

“No,” Shepard said, cutting her off. “No. Absolutely not. We are not having this discussion.”

Miranda glanced between Shepard and Conrad. Comprehension flickered across her face. “Of course, Commander,” she said, bowing her head slightly in deference. “This is not something you want to discuss away from your ship.”

_Shit._

“What? What ship?” Conrad asked. “Are you on a… a _mission_?”

“No,” Shepard said quickly.

“I’m afraid we cannot answer that in public,” said Miranda, just as quickly. “But if you’d like to sign these release forms and accompany us back, we’ll be happy to fill you in.”

“You can’t be offering him a job,” said Jacob, his words unfortunately undercut by the amusement all over his face. “It’s not safe.”

“The _Normandy_ is fully equipped for someone of his talents,” Miranda replied. She looked directly into Shepard’s eyes as she added, “We took full account of the reputation other organizations have of minimum-security research bases.”

“Oh my gods,” said Conrad, his voice rising at least three octaves in his excitement. “Oh my gods. I get to go on a mission with _Commander Shepard_!”

 

* * *

 

The walk back to the ship was relatively uneventful, even if Shepard could feel her blood pressure rising every time Conrad opened his mouth. Still, she gave him the benefit of the doubt - if he was on Cerberus’s short list for talent acquisition, there had to be _some_ reason for it.

Even if most of Cerberus’s scientists couldn’t be trusted to run a taco stand, let alone a major research lab.

Shit. This was going to blow up in her face. She just _knew_ it.

It wasn’t until Jacob started asking questions about one of Conrad’s designs that Shepard really started to pay attention.

“Oh, the FCN-100,” Conrad was saying, nodding. “I wondered what happened to that. I really thought I had worked the kinks out of the design.”

“You did, actually,” said Jacob. “I got to field test the first Alliance-produced model.”

“Really?” Conrad sounded like he was a kid who just got told he could adopt a puppy on his birthday. “How did it fly? Did the mass transfer work properly? Did the arcanometer break?”

“Whoa, slow down there,” said Jacob. “I only flew it just the once, but it was _sweet as hell_ , man.”

Shepard blinked. “This would be the prototype that Alliance brass buried?”

Jacob nodded. “Like I said before, the only reason we didn’t change over to it was the insane cost of restructuring the entire division, and you know how terrible the military is about that.”

“Hurry up and wait,” recited Shepard. Boy, did she know that.

“If they were using standard military requisitions, I can see that,” Conrad mused, stroking his beard in what he clearly thought was a dignified fashion. “You’d have to go through some vendors in the private sector to really get a good deal on materials, though.”

“What kind of prices are you talking about?” asked Miranda, now hyperfocused.

“Why, what do you need? Weapons? Armor? Is this some big squid-killing project because I can totally work up some designs for a Squid-Killer Six Thousand–”

“Oh look,” Shepard called out, just a bit too loudly. “We’re at the ship. Miranda, can you get Doctor Verner set up with Doctor Solus in the tech lab?”

Miranda blinked. “Right away? I think Solus is still disinfecting everything.”

“Good,” Shepard said. “He can get Conrad’s probing out of the way first, that’ll save time.”

Conrad glanced between Shepard and Miranda. “…probing?”

“Just a necessary scientific procedure,” Shepard confirmed. “Nothing to worry about, not too invasive at all. Best to get it done now so you can start working, right?”

Jacob stifled a laugh. “Come on, I’ll show you aboard.”

He ushered a suddenly-uncertain Conrad up the gangplank. Shepard watched them go, shaking her head.

“Probing,” remarked Miranda.

“Geoffrey’s a bad influence on me,” said Shepard.

“If you want to antagonize an aetherphysicist who specializes in weapons, be my guest,” said Miranda. “Just leave me out of it, alright?”

Shepard sighed. “If that’s all it takes, then he won’t last an hour on that ship. It’ll be good for him.”

Miranda just huffed in annoyance and made her way up to the ship.

It was peaceful at the docks, and the wind was just right. The _Normandy_ swayed gently in its berth, and Shepard just watched the frigate relax into its moorings once more.

When was the last time she stopped to take a breath like this? Not since she woke up. Not since–

( _ **can’t breathe can’t see**_ )

Not since _before_. And her life at that time hadn’t exactly been the pinnacle of leisure, either.

She closed her eyes, leaning on the dock’s railings, and relaxed into the wind. The Collectors were taking innocent people from their homes. Reapers were looming somewhere just beyond the horizon. The world was shaking itself apart and nobody even knew.

But for now, there was peace. For now there was quiet. Just her and the wind.

The railing moved under Shepard’s elbows as someone leaned next to her. “You know, loitering is prohibited in municipal areas after sundown.”

“Sun hasn’t set, Vakarian,” Shepard countered without opening her eyes. “Are you going to arrest me anyway?”

“Oh, hell no. I’m not _that_ suicidal.”

There was something in Garrus’s voice that made Shepard open her eyes and stare at him. He was leaning the same way Shepard was, back to the railing and elbows propping him up against the metal, but any impression of a carefree turian on holiday was thrown to the winds when she saw how rigidly locked his posture was, the unconscious clench of his mandibles, the tightness of his eyes under his browplates.

“What do you mean, ‘ _that_ ’ suicidal?” she asked.

“Or at all,” Garrus added, quickly. He fidgeted under her scrutiny. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” said Shepard. “Talk to me, Garrus.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Garrus repeated. “Look, it’s over and done with, and I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Not right now. So please, just drop it.”

Shepard held her gaze for another long moment, but Garrus had locked down. “Alright, it’s dropped,” she said, unhappily. She wanted to push, but he was right about one thing: it wasn’t the time. He’d push back and that’s not what needed to happen right now. “Just promise me that when you do want to talk–”

“I’ll come find you, I know.”

“Good.”

Garrus shifted slightly on the railing. Just like that, the walls went back up, and to a casual observer he was once again just someone enjoying the scenery. It was obvious that Archangel wasn’t the only mask Shepard’s friend was wearing.

“Ran into an old friend back at the clinic,” he said, his eyes tracking a shuttle crossing overhead.

“Oh?”

“You remember Karin, right?”

Shepard blinked. “Karin Chakwas? What’s she doing at the Citadel?”

“Yelling at orderlies, mostly,” said Garrus. “I was getting my face fixed, and she took one look at me and I don’t know what she did but the nurses went _running_.”

“Gosh, that sounds familiar,” said Shepard wryly. “So she finished up the job for old time’s sake?”

Garrus chuckled, a low deep gravelly rumble that didn’t sound forced at all. “Oh, that’s not the half of it. So, I told her you were alive.”

“You did _not_.”

Garrus nodded. “ _And_ that we were docked for at least one more night, so she said she’d pack up and be here first thing in the morning.”

Shepard blinked. “So she’s just, what, inviting herself on my mission?”

“Are you surprised?” Garrus asked.

“…no, not really,” Shepard admitted. “Being stationed in one place was probably driving her crazy.”

“That’s what she said,” said Garrus. “It’s weird how that’s working out, you know.”

“What, that we’re getting the band back together?” Shepard pushed off from the railing and stretched. “Part of that is by design. I need people I can trust.”

If Garrus took that as the jab it was partially meant as, he didn’t show it. “Which you’re rounding out with psychotic mercenaries and terrorists,” he said.

“Mercenaries are easy,” Shepard said. “If I pay Zaeed through August, he’s trustworthy until August.”

“And Cerberus?”

“They came with after I gave Harper the finger. I’m giving them a chance to prove themselves.”

Garrus shook his head. “What about all the Cerberus goons we took down before?”

“They shot at me first,” said Shepard sensibly. “That counts as wasting their chance to prove themselves.”

“Fair point. I concede.”

Shepard and Garrus grinned at each other. Regardless of what had happened, she thought, it was still good to know that some things stay the same.

“So you, Dr. Chakwas, Geoffrey, and Tali,” she said, as long as she was thinking about that. “Who else do you think we’re going to run into?”

“From the old crowd?”

“See, you _say_ the ‘old crowd’, but as far as I’m concerned I saw you all last week.”

“You were dead,” Garrus said, as if that answered everything. And to be fair, it did. “That doesn’t count.”

They stood there, companionable silence quickly changing to an awkward one.

“That’s never going to not freak me out,” Garrus said, after a while.

“How do you think _I_ feel?” responded Shepard.

“That’s a good question,” said Garrus, seizing upon that. “How do _you_ feel?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Shepard sighed. “Broken.”

Garrus nodded, and Shepard steeled herself for the inevitable _You’re not broken, Shepard, you’re the one that breaks things_.

She was wrong. “Everyone’s broken,” he said instead. “It’s how you know what needs fixing in other people.”

Shepard blinked. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“Maybe it is,” said Garrus, “but it’s kept me going so far.”

“You can’t live on spite alone,” Shepard cautioned.

“Hah. Watch me.”

On some unspoken cue, they both pushed off from the railing and headed up to the ship. The sun was starting to set, painting the clouds in the pinks and oranges of early evening. The refraction of the light hitting the Great Maelstrom from behind was especially impressive from their vantage point, as it caught behind the haze of the swirling storms, causing it to almost glow with an ethereal radiance.

“You know, I hear Wrex has himself up on a throne of skulls,” Garrus mused.

“Really?”

“Who knows if it’s real? That’s just what the rumors say.”

Shepard grinned. “Well, we should go take a look. I’ve always wanted to see an authentic krogan skull throne.”

 

* * *

 

Holy actual crap, he was on board _Commander Shepard’s ship_. The savior of the Citadel! The slayer of the Reaper! The only woman who could go toe to toe with Saren Arterius and live to tell the tale!

And she needed _his help_. Conrad Verner, scientist extraordinaire. Well, of _course_ she wanted him to come along. Commander Shepard was as wise as she was beautiful, and if she needed an aetherphysicist on her team, she would not find Conrad Verner wanting.

Even if that talk about “probing” made him uncomfortable. Oh well, he was _sure_ it was something perfectly fine. Medical evaluations, that sort of thing. Like the Commander said, best to get it out of the way so that the real science could begin.

“What was that?” said Jacob, his guide through the corridors of the famous KAS _Normandy_. (Even though the ship looked different from his trading cards. Upgrades were a thing, after all!)

“What?” responded Conrad. “What was what?”

“You were muttering to yourself,” Jacob said.

Conrad blinked. Muttering to…? “Oh!” he said, realizing that his internal monologue hadn’t been nearly as internal as he thought. “I was just saying, best to get whatever medical stuff out of the way so we can get to the real science.”

There was a soft _whirr_ as the ship’s AI - the ship _had an AI_ \- rose out of its box. “ _All sciences are ‘real’ science, Dr. Verner_ ,” said the AI’s soothing mechanical voice. “ _Even the theoretical sciences are still, paradoxically, real science._ ”

“It’s a figure of speech, EDI,” said Conrad, pleased that he remembered the AI’s designation from when Jacob had started the tour. He had been a little distracted at the time, after all. “I don’t mean to belittle the jobs that anyone else does on this ship. I’m good at science, Jacob here is good at guided tours–”

“Actually, I’m–” Jacob started, but Conrad was on a roll and barreled onwards.

“–and that nice gentleman up top was good at flying the ship, and you’re good at… what are you good at?”

“ _I provide logistical support and inter-ship communications, as well as performing multiple–_ ” EDI trailed off at Conrad’s confused look. “ _I am the Commander’s yeoman._ ”

“Oh, of course!” Conrad exclaimed. “I knew that. I’m great at boats!”

“Riiiight,” Jacob drawled. “Tell you what, you’re fine on your own at the moment, right? EDI can keep you company until Mordin’s ready for you.”

“Sure can!” said Conrad. “Thanks for the tour!”

But Jacob was already halfway down the corridor. Probably on some important mission or something.

“So, EDI,” Conrad said, filling the silence with his voice. “What about that other lady I met? Miranda. What’s her job?”

“ _She serves as executive officer, quartermaster, and personnel director,_ ” said EDI.

“Ohh, I get it,” Conrad said. “She’s the boat swain.”

“ _Technically, it’s pronounced 'bosun’,_ ” EDI corrected.

It wasn’t long until the door to the science labs opened, and Conrad was suddenly talking to the oldest salarian he’d ever seen.

“Ah! Conrad Verner. Director Lawson sent notice.” The salarian - Mordin Solus, Conrad remembered - talked a mile a minute, barely even stopping for a breath. “Read your report on aetherdynamic weapons systems. Very promising.”

“I– you _have_?”

“Oh, yes. Delightful reading. Terribly inaccurate in many respects, but _in the right ways_.” There was a gleam in Mordin’s eyes, he headed into the lab, motioning for Conrad to join him. “Shall we get started?”

“Get.. started?” Conrad asked. “Right now?”

“Yes. Overheard you. Eager to begin 'real science’.” Mordin stopped in front of an uncomfortable looking table, piled high with strange machines.

( ** _i think solus is still disinfecting everything_** )

“There doesn’t look like enough room,” Conrad mentioned, hesitantly. “Shouldn’t we do this in the med bay?”

“Why?” asked Mordin. “Stasis tank already here. Perfectly capable of containing sample.”

“ _Sample?_ ” Conrad squeaked.

( _ **he can get conrad’s probing out of the way, that’ll save time**_ )

“Was just informed!” said Mordin, happily. “Can’t wait to start. Been preparing all afternoon for…” The salarian paused mid-sentence, inhaling sharply, and the multitool frame resting across his shoulders unfolded into a variety of sharp and pointy attachments. “… _dissection_ ,” he finished.

Conrad fainted.

 

* * *

 

Mordin sighed and turned back to the stasis chamber. Humans were so strange, he knew, but no matter how much evidence of this he acquired, they still found ways to surprise him.

No matter. Verner would wake up soon. Unconsciousness provided no lasting damage to humans. Mordin would go back to analyzing the miasma-poisoned samples on his own.

Still. _Inconvenient_.

The curious machine rose out of its containment cube. “ _Is something wrong with Dr. Verner?_ ” it asked.

Marvelous device. Abomination in the eyes of most asari religions. Flagrantly illegal in Council airspace, of course, but this ship was turning out to be full of surprises.

“Had some unexplained reaction to my request to study miasma samples,” Mordin responded cheerfully. Abominations were all well and good but the device was _useful_ , and no one could ever say that Mordin Solus was too proud to use the tools in front of him. “Will deduce the reasons later. Please convey thanks to Shepard for the use of the lab.”

“ _Of course,_ ” EDI said. “ _I am curious, Dr. Solus._ ”

“Fantastic! Human studies of Automated Intelligences have progressed far beyond original assumptions.” When the machine did not respond, Mordin blinked. Ah, yes, of course. “Curious about what?”

“ _You agreed to join this mission suspiciously quickly,_ ” said EDI. “ _Why?_ ”

“Opportunity presented itself, took it. No ulterior motive.” Mordin inhaled sharply - science was a matter of _pride_ , after all. “Physical records of Collectors are rare, often destroyed shortly upon discovery. This is a chance of a lifetime.”

And some lifetimes were shorter than others, he carefully didn’t add.

“ _I see. Logging you out, Doctor._ ”

Yes, some lifetimes were shorter than others. Something Mordin knew well - salarian lifespans were dwarfed by every other sentient race in the world. Lifespans were a… careful interest of his, have been for his entire adult life. Hypotheses tested, experiments run.

Missions carried out in secret.

Anomolies were important to the scientific method. They were to be studied, inspected, learned from. When something happened far beyond the standard curve, it was the scientist’s duty to find out why.

Shepard was such an anomoly. She had not yet been tested, but the rumors surrounding her death and resurrection were… disturbing.

Mordin was all too happy to push past the disturbing to get at the heart of the matter. But pushing past did not mean ignoring.

Regardless. Things to do. Samples to take.

 

* * *

 

The tank was silent.

That was the first thing that Archer noticed as he entered the lab for the evening. The omnipresent clattering had ceased, and that - more than anything else - unsettled him to his core.

He approached the tank and stared at the specimen. It floated in the amnigel, not moving, not reacting, until he pressed his face as close to the glass as possible.

The eyes were open. That wasn’t new, but the fact that they were focused directly onto Archer was. Previously, the specimen exhibited no awareness of the lab outside the tank, aside from the pounding and scraping against the inside of the glass. Whenever the eyes were open they were unfocused, unresponsive, which was only expected due to the extensive nerve damage that needed to be repaired.

Archer tapped on the glass, and watched as the specimen focused on his finger.

“Doesn’t like that,” said a voice from three inches behind him.

Archer tried to stop himself from flinching. He was partially successful, turning it into more of a full-body shudder. “David, _please_ don’t do that.” He stepped away from the tank and faced his brother. “What do you mean, ‘doesn’t like that’?”

David’s eyes kept glancing furtively at the thing in the tank. “Two years. Cold. Dark. Can’t see. Can’t breathe.”

Archer blinked. “Have you eaten today, David?” he said, not unkindly. “You get erratic when your blood sugar is low.”

David’s eyes never wavered from the tank. “Half a sandwich. Twelve grapes.” He blinked, as always, slightly too slowly. “I can hear the screams. Make it stop.”

It was always unsettling when David was in one of those moods, Archer knew. He’d had to take care of his brother for the last decade, ever since their parents died. He thought he was a good older brother, but some times were harder than others. This… this was one of those times.

Archer found himself looking at one of the open binders on his desk. One of the projects that needed his approval to go forward, or his veto to dismantle it. It was risky and somewhat barbaric, but…

“David?”

“Arms wide. Searching. Pleading for a way to save everyone.”

“David.”

His younger brother finally tore himself away from the tank. “You want me to go to the geth labs.”

“I think it might be good for you. The kind of mathematical work you enjoy.”

A slow blink. “You want me out of the way.”

“That’s not it at all,” said Archer. Mostly truthfully. “I want you to be happy, and this will be the best use of your mind. Can you do this for me?”

David nodded. “Building blocks. Building civilization. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts.”

“That’s right, David. And this will be the best for the whole.”

The look his brother gave him was searching, inscrutable. Archer felt like he had said something wrong. But after a while, David nodded again, went to his desk, and started gathering his supplies.

Archer watched his brother go sadly. It was almost a merciful cruelty, he thought. He could never live the way David did. Wouldn’t _want_ to in his place. It was kind, what he was doing, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?


End file.
